Chapter 7 - I torture you?

I entered the room at the address Damon had sent me at exactly eight o’clock and a doorman greeted me with a polite smile.

The receptionist, a pretty brunette took my invitation card and directed me to a wing of the massive building although I didn’t miss the way she took me in again, with respect in her gaze when she saw my invitation card.

An imposing set of marble stairs rises before me, draped in blood red carpet and I carefully walk up them, my ankles wobbly thanks to the black five-inches whisper thin stilettos I don’t know what I was thinking when I had brought them down from my rack of shoes ditching the sensible more balanced heels Damon had sent me.

Perhaps I am a masochist and the thought that it will take nothing for me to topple over; just one misstep, one miscalculation and I will be on the floor, my face planted on the ground made me happy in a way.

When I reach the top of the stairs, my thought was completely halted by the man waiting for me, his gaze on his watch.

Looking like he was the reward for my dread and fear when I remember that I will have to tell Skye and my Parents about this crazy arrangement I have snagged for myself sooner or later, he looked up and I held on to the rail, my knees suddenly buckling. The man looks like a god, and my fear is that he isn’t a good one and might wreck me if he keeps on staring at me like that. Almost like he was hungry. Ravenous.

I don’t like the way he looked. From his ruffled black hair that told me he clearly didn’t give a fuck and has been putting his hand through it a lot to his black dress shirt tucked into matching slacks, even down to his black dress shoes, he looked stunning. Too good-looking for his own good. 

So breathtaking, I stopped approaching him and unashamedly and greedily drink him in. I studied the beautiful man I am supposed to convince the world wanted me, needed me, and was in love with me and my heartbeat thundered.

“Do you really not own any clothing that isn’t black?” I asked when I finally met him.

“No,” he stared at me, his kissable lips like a dangling temptation in front of me. “I want you to bring all the color into my life.” He deadpanned while I stared at him in confusion trying to decipher what he meant.

“Get ready to meet the people who truly own New York City,” he flashed me a grin and extended his hand to me. I took it and letting the wind with us, a doorman opened the heavy doors of the room.

And I tried and failed miserably not to gawk as I stepped into a showroom of opulence and extravagance with a man that saunters into it like king.

The walls were dark-grey paneled and from where I stood all I could see were blood-red colored table clothes and matching chairs. A beautiful woman in an extravagant flowing black gown and heavy makeup occupied a part of the room with her violin and a wiry-dressed man who handled the piano nimbly. The woman seemed so enraptured with the violin as she strummed a piece that melded with the pianist's note, producing a perfect classical piece that is almost sorrowful.

The room oozed class and reeked of wealth that was hard to miss.

Men and women who practically ruled the world occupied these chairs sipping champagne and acting like they absolutely cared about what the other had to say. But, months ago I had been ready to be a part of this society as their attorney so I know that everything in here was a façade. Behind their million dollars tux and elegant gowns were filthy dirty secrets, grudges, and people who will stab another with a knife at their back without blinking for a step farther on the corporate ladder.

The sound in the background which got louder and louder dramatically only added to my dark thought because the higher it got, the more I noticed their toothpaste advert-worthy set of teeth gleaming in the light, their champagne glasses hitting the other as they made toasts that were as empty and conceited as their thoughts. They laughed while throwing insults at each other and veiled threats were sampled like the overpriced wine they sipped.

I belonged in this room with these cutthroat people. At least, months ago that’s all I wanted to do. Belong here.

As I stood next to Damon still holding his hand while he mirrored my thought with a disdainful scowl on his face, a woman probably in her fifties or older but looked like she hasn’t seen a day over thirty walked towards us in a skin-tight emerald gown that hugged her like a glove showing off curves that made me have to remind myself again and again not to gawk at her.

Her blonde hair gleamed under the light as she stepped closer to us.

“Who am I seeing? Is that my handsome son, Damon who hates society meet and greet?” she asked with a wide smile that was so infectious I found myself smiling back and even Damon’s scowl lessened.

“Good evening, Ma,” Damon greeted her but her cat-like green eyes were on me and there was something about her gaze that was feline-like as she took me in. “Who is this?” she asked, interest in her eyes as she kept on looking at me even though I know the question was meant for Damon.

He opened his mouth but I beat him to it refusing to stand in the corner and be discussed like I am not there.

“I am Julia Quinn and I am__”

“My fiancée,” he completed and I looked up to meet his eyes. I had not even thought of what I will call myself and although his eyes were on the woman in front of us, I squeezed his hand gently so he knew I appreciate him coming to my rescue.

If she looked surprised at this new development, she didn’t show it although her eyes went to my bare finger before she smiled at Damon. “I like her. She is feisty yet looks so innocent,” she met my eyes. “Seems like you will be lasting among the sharks.”

Damon shook his head like he was fed up with her antics but his eyes twinkled betraying how fond he is of the woman in front of us. “Don’t scare her, please.”

“Just letting her know what she is getting into before you make the engagement public,” she replied.

“Julia, this is Ma. Greene. She is our host who loves entertaining vain people with vain things and my best friend’s mom who is like a mother to me,” he muttered.

Ma Greene threw her head back and chuckled. “You ungrateful and heartless rattlesnake. I raised him. I am not like his mother, I am his mother,” she told me and then scoffed at him. “He even looks like me!” She exclaimed.

She was a beautiful woman and still made heads turn but she looked nothing like the man beside me although I knew better than to say that so I kept mute.

“And call me Carlene. Ma. Greene just makes me feel too old and I am not that old yet.”

I grinned. “Okay, Carlene.”

“She likes you,” Damon smirks at me. “She mostly ignores my date and when she entertains them, she never asks them to call her by her name.”

“I am quite likable and I am not your other dates, I am your fiancée,” I possessively stated before sliding my hand to his chest, hating the reminder that I am not the first woman who had ogled at him and stayed by his side. Carlene’s eyes sparked with approval and I decided immediately that I liked her too.

“Is Mathew here?” Damon asked although I could tell that he was amused and I bet a little impressed by my arrogance. I know because his grip on my hand tightened

Carlene rolled his eyes. “Probably at a corner of the city doing unimaginable things with a bottle of drink and women.” Shaking her head and grumbling about being blessed with two reckless sons she walked away from us.

“I like her,” I grinned at him and although his face remained expressionless, his eyes held warmth in them.

“Why wouldn’t you? She loves any woman who tortures me because she does the same to me.”

“I torture you?” I asked half in surprise.

“You wear a gown like that, give me conditions that prevent me from touching you at least the way I want to and you still ask me that question? Most times, I wonder if you are really that clueless or if you are just fucking with me.” his lips were so close to my ears and so was his body heat against my body.

“You bought the dress for me and insisted I wear it,” I muttered defensively and he groaned.

“And it was the most modest dress in the fucking boutique with its sweetheart neckline that is supposed to be safe, not leave me gawking at how virginal yet sinful you look,” he whispered harshly, leaning into me. “But who am I kidding? You can be wearing a sack of potatoes and I will still want you. Same as the assholes who are not even trying to hide their covetous gaze,”