Chapter 1

The envelope came nestled in a creamy hue, robust and rich in texture, lined with gold foil that shimmered along its edges. There was a faint trace of gardenia mingling with a whiff of something more ominous.

Serena Vale gazed at it as though holding a ticking time bomb. Her name, Serena Vale, was written on it in elegant cursive. It bore a formal tone, with no warmth nor titles, just starkness etched in deceit.

Hesitation gripped her, she didn't open it right away. Her fingers quivered, and her eyes stung from suppressed emotion. The silence stretched, turning the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock into a deafening refrain

At last, she tore it open.

Her heart skipped a beat at the revelation inside.

You are warmly invited to celebrate the union of Aidan Royce and Isabella Vale.

Date: July 18

Venue: The Royal Azure Hotel Grand Ballroom

Dress Code: Black Tie

Time: 5 PM Sharp

Serena blinked- her heart heavy with disbelief.

Once, then twice.

Her sister

Her ex.

Their impending wedding felt like a betrayal with a sharp edge.

Her throat tightened, eyes misted, as if she could will reality to transform.

She read it again, hoping the words might change under her gaze. But they remained the same, unyielding in their cruelty.

The invitation slipped from her fingers, fluttering like a burned-out matchstick onto the marble floor.

Aidan had belonged to her for two years, their lives knitted together in a shared future.

Their dreams had unraveled just three months ago when he claimed he needed "space."

Apparently, his "space" included a dazzling engagement ring and her sister's triumph.

She staggered back, clutching the kitchen counter for balance, the chill of the marble a stark contrast to the fiery betrayal coursing through her veins.

A sharp, hollow laugh escaped her lips. She couldn't decipher what hurt more the event itself, the guest list or the cold acceptance from her family.

Her phone buzzed-a message from her mother lit up the screen.

Behave at the wedding.

 This isn't the time for drama. Isabella deserves a perfect day.

Something inside her fractured as she read those words.

She barely recalled the hours that passed a haze of wine, the sound of a wineglass shattering against the kitchen floor,

and humiliation rising in her like an unwelcome guest.

To be discarded was one pain, but to be publicly replaced was another agony altogether.

Her apartment suffocated her with its memories- Aidan's scent lingering in the air, his books haunting her shelves.

She did what any heartbroken woman would do.

She go dress to kill.

A black satin gown that draped to the floor, a daring slit grazing her thigh.

With smoky eyes, crimson lips, and heels that threatened to topple giants,

And then she crashed at the Design Gala, she wasn't invited to.

The Astoria Tower's ballroom gleamed with opulence: crystal chandeliers casting their splendor above, champagne flutes clinking in celebration.

New York's elite were there-billionaires, creatives, influencers, the kind who danced effortlessly between power and charm.

But Serena had no care for the social whirl- her sights were set on dulling the ache in her heart.

Through strangers' glances and murmured gossip, she strutted, plucking a flute from a passing tray,

drinking too quickly, letting the burn match her inner turmoil.

Then, amidst the masked glamour, she spotted him.

In the room, standing by a panoramic window with his back turned, was Damien Cole.

He was tall, ruthless, and impeccably dressed, with a sharp suit and even sharper jawline.

As the CEO of Cole International, he had amassed billions before he even turned thirty-five.

He leaned slightly toward a blonde woman in a striking red dress, not saying a word, yet somehow commanding attention from every corner of the room.

Everyone knew of Damien. Everyone feared him.

But nobody truly understood what drove him, except perhaps for a singular desire: control.

Serena had heard the swirling rumors. He had amassed his fortune by reanimating bankrupt businesses.

It was whispered he once humiliated a business rival so thoroughly at a shareholders' meeting that the man retired in disgrace.

His ex-fiancée had disappeared from the public eye after their engagement crumbled.

Yet, she was unprepared when he suddenly turned to catch her, his gaze locking onto hers.

In that instant, something seemed to shift in the atmosphere.

Serena knew she should look away, should retreat into the crowd and vanish.

But instead, she raised her glass to him in a mock salute, taking a sip with a daring flick of her wrist.

Damien tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes, and then politely excused himself from the woman in red

His every step toward her was deliberate, the crowd appearing to part effortlessly for him.

His eyes remained fixed on hers the entire way.

Finally, he stopped in front of her. He didn't smile or question her presence, but looked at her as though he already knew everything about her.

"You don't belong here," he said, his voice low and cultured, with a hint of danger.

Serena arched an eyebrow in return. "Neither do half the people in this room," she shot back.

His eyes slid to the champagne glass in her hand, then back to her unwavering stare.

"Gatecrashing a gala dressed like that? You're either making a statement or starting a war," he observed.

"I haven't decided yet," she replied coolly, her voice ice-edged.

Something flickered in his eyes-interest.

"What's your name?" he asked, as if sizing up a worthy adversary.

She offered a small, defiant smile. "Serena Vale." she declared

His gaze sharpened, not with recognition but calculation.

"The Serena Vale? Daughter of Senator Vale?"

Her smile faded slightly at his words.

"You know my father?"

"I know everyone who pretends to matter," he replied, his tone laced with cold confidence.

She bristled at his audacity.

"And you?" she retorted.

"I don't pretend," he stated simply, but his words carried the weight of certainty.

His arrogance was undeniable. Yet irritatingly, she sensed he was right, in a way.

Her instinct should have been to walk away, but her curiosity made her stay, her words racing ahead of her thoughts.

"Let me guess," she challenged. "You're going to tell me I don't belong in your world, escort me out, and then go back to either bore or charm the life out of that poor woman."

A small smirk appeared at the corners of his mouth.

"Tempting. But no," he mused, eyes glinting with mischief.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to just above a whisper.

"I actually think, Miss Vale, you're exactly where you ought to be," he confessed in a voice that held a hint of intrigue.

Serena wasn't quite sure what to expect from Damien Cole. Perhaps a frosty brush-off. Or a dismissive smirk before turning his attention elsewhere.

What she truly didn't anticipate was actual... interest.

He assessed her as though she were an intriguing gamble. His gaze traveled languidly from her eyes to her lips, along the curve of her neck, before resting back on her face, as if he already claimed it.

A warm flutter ignited in her stomach. The kind she shouldn't feel. The kind that had been long absent. And certainly not for someone like him.

Raising her chin, she quipped, "Careful, I bite."

His smirk broadened, though barely. "So do I."

The energy between them sparked dangerously, and for a brief moment, Serena lost sight of her reasons for being there.

Until a voice broke through.

"Is that you, Serena?"

The voice was sugary sweet, yet laced with venom. Serena turned slowly.

And there they stood.

Isabella Vale-her younger sister,... draped in an ice-blue designer gown, a strawberry-sized diamond perched on her hand-and and attached to her arm, was Aidan Royce, wearing a smug expression, all too pleased with himself.

Her ex.

Serena felt her throat tighten.

No words were spoken initially. Only an oppressive silence filled the air.

Then Isabella cocked her head, smiling with a brittle sheen.

"You weren't invited to the gala. How... bold of you to attend anyway."

Aidan remained silent, his eyes darting from Damien to Serena. Uncertainty flickered across his features.

Serena swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat.

"Neither were you two, this is a design gala, not a tabloid spectacle."

Isabella's smile never faltered.

"Oh, darling. We were indeed invited. Aidan's father is one of the sponsors. I'm sure it was just an oversight that left you off the list."

Serena gripped her champagne glass tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at everything-Isabella, Aidan, the very night surrounding her.

Instead, she inhaled deeply, offering a calm smile.

"Well, that clears up the confusion. Trash does have a way of surfacing when the moment is opportune."

Isabella's eyes narrowed.

Finally, Aidan spoke up.

"Serena... You look... different."

Different, perhaps, because she wasn't breaking down as expected? Because she wasn't crying helplessly in some corner?

Her jaw tensed.

"Grief changes people," she replied sweetly. "But don't worry. I'm finishing up my grieving process." Her words struck him, as a twitch crossed his face.

Isabella advanced a step, her eyes bright with challenge.

"Still holding onto bitterness? You really ought to let go. It's unhealthy."

Serena felt the resentment flare up her spine.

But she merely widened her smile.

"I let go the moment I realized your fiancé lacks any real backbone."

A nearby murmur indicated the sharpness of her words had caught attention.

Spinning on her heel, Serena was set to vanish into the night, or perhaps just scream into the void-but Damien intervened.

His grasp encircled her wrist firmly, yet gently.

The room fell into a hush.

He positioned himself squarely between Serena and her sister and ex, his commanding presence palpable and imposing.

He regarded Aidan with disdain, as if he were an unsightly weed.

"I suppose introductions are in order," Damien stated, his voice a smooth knife-edge. "I'm Damien Cole. Serena's date."

The declaration landed like a thunderclap.

Aidan's eyes went wide. Isabella looked as if she might drop. The crowd buzzed with whispers.

"Date?" Isabella echoed, disbelief coloring her tone.

"Since when?" she continued.

Damien's gaze never wavered.

"Since last week."

Turning to serenely touch Serena's hand, he added, "She traded up after your circus left town."

Serena felt her heart leap into her throat.

Yet, she didn't correct him.

Nor did she wish to.

Aidan's face contorted.

"Are you telling me this whole thing between you two is actually real?"

Damien held his gaze.

"Do you always ask questions, or is it just that you're rarely ready to hear the answers?"

For a moment, Aidan hesitated.

For the first time in his perfectly sculpted life, he looked truly uncertain.

Good.

"I don't believe it," Isabella spat.

"You're just doing this to embarrass me."

Serena stepped in, her voice cutting like cold steel.

"You mean like sending me a wedding invitation with your name written all over it?"

Isabella turned ashen.

And then, Serena did something daring.

She casually looped her arm through Damien's, leaning into his side as if they had done it a hundred times before.

He didn't even blink.

In fact, his arm slipped around her waist with the ease of familiarity, as if she belonged there.

She gazed up at him.

"I think we should leave. The stench of desperation is spoiling my appetite."

He looked down at her.

"With pleasure."

Together, they turned and walked away, arm in arm,

from what was undoubtedly the most satisfying public takedown Serena had ever been part of.

Yet even so. her stomach twisted.

Because while part of this moment felt like well-earned vengeance,

another part of it felt alarmingly genuine.

The elevator ride up to the penthouse was silent- too silent.

Serena stood beside Damien, trying not to look at him, trying not to feel the pressure of his hand still lightly resting on the small of her back.

She tried not to think about the fact that she'd just involved one of the city's most powerful men in her

personal drama.

He hadn't released her.

Not during the awkward stares in the ballroom. Not during the whispers in the corridor. Not even now, with just the two of them standing in a gold-plated box suspended 40 floors above Manhattan.

When the doors slid open, she broke the silence first.

"You didn't have to do that," she said, stepping into the sleek marble-and-glass suite, that smelled of leather and polished power.

"I know," Damien replied simply, following her inside. "But I wanted to."

She turned to face him, arms crossed. "Why?"

His expression remained steady. "Because I hate seeing people humiliated by the weak."

Her heart thudded. "That was... specific."

"You were the only interesting thing in that room," he said. "And you were seconds away from breaking."

She flinched, then straightened her spine. "So this was charity?"

He stepped closer. "Hardly."

Serena turned back to the bar, poured herself a glass of champagne, and drank it in one go.

Then she reached for another and yet another.

Liquid courage coursed through her veins as she laughed bitterly, wobbling slightly as she leaned toward

Damien.

"You're not drunk enough to forget this night," he said quietly. "But keep going, and you will be." Serena narrowed her eyes. "Maybe that's the point."

Damien watched her for a long moment. Then, with quiet finality, he said, "You're better than this. Don't let them make you forget that."

"You know what would really make them choke?" she slurred, eyes glittering with spite and liquor.

"If I walked in next weekend on your arm, dripping diamonds and lies. Told the whole world we're madly in

love."

Damien raised an eyebrow. "You're suggesting we fake date?"

She hiccupped. "Not seriously. Unless you're that bored."

He didn't smile. "I don't get bored."

Serena shook her head, laughing again, this time at herself.

"God, what am I even saying? Ignore me. I'm drunk and petty and incredibly single."

Damien's gaze didn't waver. "Maybe I won't ignore you."

Before she could ask what he meant, Damien pulled out his phone and walked away, his long strides calm and deliberate.

A minute later, in a dim corner of the ballroom, he raised the phone to his ear.

"It's me," he said. "Change of plans. I found someone.

Then the both went down to get back to the gala.

For a long moment, Damien remained motionless, staring through the crowd with calculating detachment.

All around him, the gala buzzed with champagne, laughter, and soft piano music.

No one noticed the man quietly orchestrating a scheme in the shadows.

No one except Serena.

She turned her head slightly, frowning, as if she'd just felt something.

A prickle at the back of her neck.

The faint weight of a gaze heavy with meaning.

She looked around slowly, eyes scanning the crowd.

Her brows drew together, uncertain.

But Damien had already blended back into the bodies moving across the ballroom floor.

Serena shivered.

She blamed the alcohol

It was easier than admitting that something about that man-his voice, his eyes, the strange pull in his presence - had lodged itself beneath her skin.

She shook it off, downed another half glass, and turned her attention back to the bar.

A flicker of movement above her.

A man on the mezzanine with a camera, snapping photos from the shadows.

Not paparazzi-something more discreet, more deliberate

The red light blinked once before disappearing into darkness.

Someone else had noticed Damien's interest in her.

Someone who intended to use it.

Back on the ballroom floor, Serena stumbled slightly as she stood.

The room tilted a little, just enough for her to pause.

She wasn't as drunk as she wanted to be, but more than she could control.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She ignored it.

Then it buzzed again.

She finally pulled it out, blinking at the name flashing across the screen.

Aidan Royce.

Her breath hitched.

A shaky finger hovered over the screen.

Her thumb slipped.

The call connected.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

Static.

Breath. Then his voice.

"Why him?"

She nearly dropped the phone.

"What?" she whispered.

"You brought him here... to make a scene?"

"I didn't bring anyone," she snapped.

"And don't call me like this.

Not now.

Not ever."

Click

She hung up.

Her heart pounded.

She gripped the edge of the bar again and looked up just in time to catch a figure disappearing through a side door.

Damien.

She couldn't quite explain how she knew. She just did.

A peculiar sense of inevitability wrapped around her shoulders like a velvet cloak.

Something strange was happening,

And it had already begun.

High above the bustling dance floor, hidden behind the plush velvet curtains of the VIP lounge, a woman sat back in a crimson chair, studying the ballroom through keen opera glasses.

She crossed one elegant leg over the other, her manicured fingers tapping a gentle rhythm on a glass of untouched wine.

"Damien Cole," she murmured to herself, a curl playing at the corners of her lips. "Still playing god, I see." Her assistant leaned in, whispering, "Should we inform the client?"

She offered a faint smile with a hint of mystery. "Not yet," she replied. "Let's see how far he's willing to go this time."

On the ground floor, Serena pushed herself away from the bar. Her heels wobbled, yet her spine remained resolute.

The mask of calm she'd been wearing began to crack, her instincts buzzing with energy, as though electricity coursed beneath her skin.

Whatever that night had set in motion,

it wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

High above where she stood, an unseen figure was already orchestrating the game.

Moves had been made, and the pieces were set neatly into place.

Unbeknownst to Serena Vale, she had unwittingly become the queen in a strategic game that was being played by another.