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The night that changed everything
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2025-10-13 19:45:22(Aria’s POV)
The chandeliers glittered like frozen constellations above my head, each crystal reflecting light and luxury in a way that mocked the trembling in my hands. I didn’t belong here—every breath I took reminded me of that. The Hale Foundation Gala was the kind of event where deals were signed with smiles and fortunes exchanged over champagne. I was just an architect with a dying company and a borrowed dress that cost more than my monthly rent. “Relax,” Lena whispered beside me, her perfectly painted lips barely moving. “You’re not crashing a wedding. You’re here to save your firm.” Her words should’ve calmed me. They didn’t. My father’s firm—Collins Design—had been my home, my identity, my legacy. Until debt, scandal, and bad luck took it all apart. The Hale Corporation’s new real estate expansion was our last hope. If I could just talk to Damon Hale, convince him to give us a design contract… maybe we’d survive. But how do you talk to a man like him? Damon Hale. The billionaire no one really knew. Half the business world called him a genius, the other half called him a machine. I’d seen photos—tall, lean, always in black, his expression unreadable. A man who seemed allergic to warmth. I scanned the glittering crowd. Politicians. Celebrities. Investors. And somewhere among them—him. Lena nudged my elbow. “There. By the stage.” I followed her gaze—and froze. He stood under the low amber light, surrounded by power like it was his natural element. Damon Hale looked like sin carved into human form—black tuxedo, sharp jawline, eyes the color of a storm trapped in glass. He wasn’t talking; people talked to him. And he listened with that unnerving stillness, like he was always a few steps ahead. My throat tightened. What was I even doing here? Before I could lose my nerve, Lena handed me a flute of champagne. “You’re going to walk over there, smile, and introduce yourself like you belong here.” “I don’t belong here,” I muttered. She smirked. “Then fake it. Everyone else is.” Her words lit a small spark of courage. I squared my shoulders and walked toward him, my heels clicking on marble, the crowd’s laughter fading behind me. He noticed me before I even reached him. His gaze flicked up—steady, assessing, a single raised brow that nearly stopped me in place. “Mr. Hale,” I managed, extending a hand I hoped wasn’t shaking. “Aria Collins. I—uh—I wanted to speak with you about a potential project.” His eyes swept over me, not in the usual male way, but as if he was reading my entire story in one glance. “Collins Design,” he said, voice smooth, low, unhurried. “Your firm was involved in the Cresswell collapse two years ago.” I flinched. “We were cleared of fault. The subcontractors—” “I know,” he cut in. “But reputation doesn’t rebuild as quickly as steel.” Heat crawled up my neck. He was right. And cruelly calm about it. “I’m not asking for sympathy, Mr. Hale,” I said quietly. “Just a chance.” For a second, his expression flickered. Curiosity? Amusement? I couldn’t tell. Then someone called his name, and the moment broke. He turned slightly, as if to excuse himself, but I blurted— “Your next project. The new Hale Tower. I’ve seen the preliminary designs. You could do better.” The air shifted. Conversations around us dimmed, though I wasn’t sure if it was real or just my pounding pulse. Damon looked back at me—really looked this time. “Better?” he repeated. “Yes,” I said, finding my courage somewhere between fear and pride. “Bolder. More human. You’re building the future, Mr. Hale, but it shouldn’t look like a fortress.” Silence stretched between us. His lips twitched—the ghost of a smirk. “Interesting,” he murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink. “You’re either brave or foolish, Miss Collins.” “Maybe both.” Something like amusement sparked in his eyes. Then, before I could say more, a commotion rippled near the stage. Cameras flashed. Someone bumped my shoulder hard, spilling champagne across my borrowed dress—and right onto Damon Hale. “Oh my God,” I gasped, grabbing a napkin. “I’m so sorry—” He caught my wrist mid-motion, his touch cool and controlled. “Don’t.” The photographers turned instantly—snapping, shouting. From a distance, it probably looked like something far more intimate than it was: my hand in his, our faces inches apart, his gaze locked on mine. And in that instant, I knew. The picture would go everywhere. The billionaire and the unknown woman—caught under the chandeliers, dripping champagne and scandal. Damon’s expression hardened as realization dawned. He released my wrist slowly, his voice low enough that only I could hear: “You’ve just made things very complicated, Miss Collins.” “I didn’t—” “Too late,” he said, eyes glinting with dark calculation. “You’d better be ready for what comes next.” I didn’t know then that “next” meant waking up to headlines calling me the billionaire’s secret wife. Or that within twenty-four hours, Damon Hale would ask me to sign a marriage contract. And that I’d say yes. 
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