CHAPTER 6 You Started This

The gala was the kind of event that made you feel overdressed no matter how carefully you planned. The room glittered with expensive jewelry and quiet confidence, people smiling as if smiling was part of the contract. Cameras flashed near the entrance. A few reporters stood behind a velvet rope, waiting for a name big enough to make their night worth it.

Chloe was in her element.

She linked her arm through mine and pulled me forward like I belonged there, like I wasn't still trying to decide what version of myself I needed to be.

"Stay close," she whispered with a grin. "If someone corners you with small talk, I'll rescue you."

"I can handle small talk," I said.

"Not here you can't. Here it's a sport."

I smiled, the right kind of smile, and let her lead me deeper into the crowd.

Damian was already there.

Of course he was.

He stood near a group of men in tailored suits, speaking calmly, his posture relaxed in a way that still managed to look controlled. He didn't scan the room like he was searching for me. He didn't look unsettled. He looked like the kind of man people wanted to impress.

When his eyes finally landed on me, it was brief.

Not cold.

Not warm.

Neutral.

As if dinner last night had ended exactly how he wanted it to.

I held his gaze for a second longer than I needed to, then looked away first.

Cool.

That was the only way I could survive this without falling apart in public.

Chloe squeezed my arm. "I have to say hi to someone. Don't move."

She disappeared into a cluster of women near the bar.

I stayed where I was, adjusting the strap of my dress and pretending I wasn't hyperaware of the room. The music was soft, elegant, the kind that sat behind conversation instead of interrupting it. The air smelled like perfume and champagne.

Someone stepped beside me.

"Are you with Chloe Cole?" the man asked, polite and easy.

I turned and offered a polite smile.

"Yes. I'm her friend."

"I thought so," he said, amused. "I'm Adrian. We met briefly at the last fundraiser."

I didn't remember, but I nodded anyway.

"That was a chaotic night," I said.

He laughed. "That's an accurate description of most fundraisers."

His tone was light. Charming. Not pushy.

We talked for a few minutes. He asked about my degree. I told him I was finishing my final year and interning with a mid-sized investment firm that worked closely with private equity portfolios. His interest sharpened slightly when I mentioned the industry, but I kept my tone casual. It wasn't impressive yet. Just an internship. Just experience. He told me about his firm, about a recent project, about how he hated these events but kept showing up anyway.

It was harmless.

Normal.

The kind of conversation I would have enjoyed any other night.

He offered me a drink. I declined. He didn't insist.

Instead, he shifted slightly closer, not invading my space, just closing the distance the way people did in crowded rooms.

"I'm glad Chloe brought you," he said. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

I laughed softly, controlled. "You're not wrong."

His smile widened. "Then let me make it less painful."

I was about to respond when I felt it, not a touch, not a sound, just the shift in the air behind me.

Damian's presence.

He stepped into our space like he belonged there, because he did. His expression was calm, the same controlled face he wore in boardrooms and interviews.

"Adrian," he said, polite.

The man straightened slightly, recognition flashing across his face.

"Mr. Cole," Adrian replied, his tone respectful.

Damian's gaze moved to me.

Not lingering.

Not obvious.

But direct.

"Dance with me," he said.

Not a question.

Not loud.

Just a statement that left no room for debate.

My stomach tightened.

I kept my expression steady. Cool. Unbothered.

I glanced at Adrian, who immediately stepped back with a polite smile.

"Of course," he said. "I won't steal her from you."

Damian didn't respond to that.

He offered his hand.

I stared at it for half a second too long before placing my fingers in his.

His grip was firm and steady.

He guided me toward the dance floor without a word.

The music shifted as we moved, the rhythm slower, more intimate. Couples swayed beneath soft lighting, the room humming with quiet conversation and clinking glasses.

Damian placed one hand at my waist.

Not low enough to be inappropriate.

Not distant enough to be formal.

Close enough that I felt it through the fabric of my dress.

His other hand held mine with controlled pressure.

I kept my posture perfect.

Chin up.

Smile faint.

A woman's survival instincts in a room full of eyes.

"You're doing well," he said quietly.

I almost laughed.

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It means you're not showing it."

"Showing what?"

He didn't answer immediately.

His hand pressed slightly against my waist as he guided me through a turn, smooth and practiced. He moved like he belonged on the dance floor, like he had done this a hundred times.

Maybe he had.

When I faced him again, his gaze was sharper.

"You've been avoiding me," he said.

I kept my expression calm. "Have I?"

"Yes."

"And what if I have?"

He didn't like that.

I felt it in the small tightening of his jaw, the shift in his grip.

But his face remained composed.

"You were talking to him," he said.

"Adrian?"

"Yes."

"Chloe told me not to move. I didn't move."

His eyes held mine.

"You know what I mean."

I lifted my brows slightly, feigning innocence. Cool. Untouchable.

"You're the one who said it was weakness."

The word landed between us like a blade wrapped in silk.

His grip tightened at my waist, just enough to register.

"Don't mistake restraint for weakness," he said.

His voice was low, controlled, meant only for me.

I looked at him steadily. "Then what is it?"

His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, not to my mouth this time, but to my face, as if he was trying to read whether I meant it or whether I was just pushing him because I could.

"You enjoy pushing me," he said.

"I'm dancing," I replied.

"That's not an answer."

I smiled slightly, cool and practiced.

"It's the only one you're getting in public."

Something like amusement flickered in his eyes, brief and sharp.

Then it vanished.

He drew me a little closer, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that I felt the change.

The music continued, slow and steady, the kind that made everything feel quieter than it actually was.

"You kissed me first," he said.

I held his gaze. "And you didn't stop me."

His jaw tightened.

He didn't deny it.

He guided me through another turn, smooth and controlled, his hand never leaving my waist.

When he pulled me back in, his mouth was close to my ear.

He didn't kiss me.

He didn't even let his lips brush my skin.

But his voice was a whisper that made my pulse jump.

"If you want this, Ava," he said, calm and low, "you don't get to run when it becomes real."

I kept my face composed.

Cool.

But my chest tightened, not from fear, from the weight of what he was implying.

I didn't answer.

I didn't have to.

The dance continued for a few more beats, our bodies moving in controlled rhythm while the room watched and assumed they were witnessing something normal.

They weren't.

When the song ended, Damian didn't release me immediately.

His hand stayed at my waist for one extra second, a quiet reminder.

Then he let go, stepped back, and the public mask returned so smoothly it almost made me doubt myself.

Almost.

But my skin still remembered his grip.

And my mind wouldn't let go of what he had whispered.

Because it wasn't a threat.

It was a rule.

And he had just made sure I heard it.