Chapter Seven: Public Appearance

The limousine glided through the Manhattan night, its black shell reflecting the city's electric pulse. Inside, Amara sat rigid, her spine pressed against the cool leather, her fingers knotted in her lap. She stared at her reflection in the tinted window, just a ghost of light and shadow, but she saw everything.

The woman before her was not the same one who had collapsed in shame two weeks ago. This Amara wore a gown of midnight blue silk, its neckline a delicate plunge, the fabric hugging her curves like a second skin. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. Her hair was swept into a loose, smoky updo, tendrils framing her face like whispered secrets. Her makeup was flawless, bold eyes, soft lips, a warrior’s composure painted over trembling nerves.

This was her first public appearance since the scandal. Since the pole. The videos. The betrayal. Since the world had branded her a slut.

And now, she was walking back into the fire on the arm of a man who had become her shield, her mystery, her husband.

Damian sat beside her, silent, still. Dressed in a tailored tuxedo, high-collared, gloves covering his hands. The only skin exposed was his face, sharp, unreadable, carved from ice and moonlight. He hadn’t spoken since they left the penthouse. But he didn’t need to.

She felt him. His presence was a weight, a warmth, a promise.

She swallowed, her throat dry.

Then, without a word, Damian turned his hand and placed it over hers.

His gloved fingers closed gently around her shaking ones.

Amara froze.

It wasn’t skin. It wasn’t the raw, electric contact she’d felt when he touched her bare arms. But still, his hand was there. Holding hers. Anchoring her.

She looked at him.

His eyes were fixed ahead, but his thumb moved, just once, over the back of her hand. A silent reassurance.

Her breath steadied.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low, smooth.

She didn’t look away. “Yes, I do.”

He turned his head slightly. “If you’re not ready, we can go back. No one will question it.”

She smiled, small, fierce. “I am ready.”

He studied her. Then nodded, once. “Then let them see you.”

The car slowed.

Ahead, the Apex Gala loomed, a grand ballroom lit in gold and crimson, the red carpet stretched like a river of fire beneath a canopy of spotlights. Paparazzi lined the barricades, cameras raised like weapons, microphones thrust forward.

The door opened.

A wave of noise crashed over them, shouts, flashes, screams.

“Amara! Over here!”

“Mrs. Blackwell! How long were you cheating on James?”

“Did you marry Damian because he’s richer?”

“Is this a publicity stunt?”

“Did you sleep with him before the wedding?”

Amara stepped out, her heels clicking against the pavement. She kept her back straight, her chin high, her face a mask of calm.

Then Damian emerged.

The crowd hushed, just for a second.

He was a ghost in a world of noise. Tall, pale-eyed, his presence radiating a quiet, terrifying authority. He didn’t flinch at the cameras. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look at them.

He looked only at her.

He offered his arm.

She took it.

They walked forward, side by side, the flashes blinding, the questions relentless.

Then, suddenly, Damian stopped.

He turned, his silver-gray eyes scanning the mob.

And when he spoke, his voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

“She is my wife.”

Silence.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t shout. But the words carried weight, final, unshakable.

“And if any of you continue to slander her,” he added, cold, precise, “you will be sued for defamation. My lawyers are already monitoring every outlet. One more lie, one more accusation, and I will bury you.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

He turned and walked forward, pulling Amara with him, the red carpet swallowing their steps.

And in that moment, something inside her cracked.

Wife.

He had called her wife.

Not “the woman I married.” Not “my partner.” Not “the girl who can touch me.”

Wife.

Her heart hammered, not from fear now, but from something deeper. Something dangerous.

They entered the ballroom.

Chandeliers blazed overhead. Crystal glasses clinked. The air was thick with perfume, power, and pretense. Every eye turned to them.

Amara felt the stares, curious, skeptical, hungry.

But Damian didn’t falter.

He guided her through the crowd, a silent sentinel at her side.

“I’ll get you a drink,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He left.

And for the first time since the limo, she was alone.

She took a breath, smoothing her dress, forcing her hands not to tremble.

Then,

“Well, well. Look who’s back.”

Amara turned.

James and Lila stood before her, smug, polished, dripping with false sympathy.

James wore a tailored tuxedo, his hair slicked back, his smile sharp as a scalpel. Lila clung to his arm, in a red dress that screamed villainess, her lips painted blood-red, her eyes gleaming with malice.

“Congratulations on the role,” Lila said, fake sweetness dripping from her voice. “Second lead. Must feel nice to be relevant again.”

Amara didn’t react. She sipped her water, still untouched, her gaze steady.

James stepped closer. “Must be hard, huh? Going from fiancée to, what? Trophy wife? Did you sell yourself for a ring, Amara? Or was it the penthouse that convinced you?”

Lila laughed. “I bet she didn’t even know who he was. Just saw the money and jumped in.”

Amara kept her voice calm. “You two really should work on your material. It’s getting old.”

James smirked. “Oh, come on. You can’t pretend this isn’t humiliating. You’re here because your new sugar daddy pities you. You’re nothing without him.”

Amara’s jaw tightened.

Then she looked at them, really looked.

And she smiled.

“Funny,” she said, voice low, dangerous. “Because the last time I checked, you were the one sleeping with my best friend while I was planning our wedding. And now you’re here, pretending to be the victim? Please. The world already knows the truth. And soon, they’ll know everything.”

Lila’s smile faltered. “You don’t have anything.”

“I don’t need to,” Amara said. “The truth is already burning you alive. You just haven’t felt the flames yet.”

She stepped forward, her voice a whisper.

“And by the way, Damian isn’t my sugar daddy. He’s my husband. And unlike you, he actually respects me.”

She turned and walked away, her heels striking the floor like gunshots.

She found Damian near the bar, two glasses in hand.

“You handled that well,” he said, offering her a champagne flute.

She took it. “I had good motivation.”

He studied her. “Are you okay?”

“I am now.”

He nodded, then gestured to a group of men in dark suits. “Come. I want you to meet the Apex board.”

One by one, he introduced her, names, titles, handshakes. She smiled, spoke, held her ground. But she noticed how Damian kept his distance, how he didn’t let anyone get too close, how his gloves never came off.

When they finished, he turned to her. “You should’ve brought Lena.”

Amara blinked. “What?”

“Your mother,” he said. “She’s your agent. She should be here. Supporting you.”

Amara’s throat tightened. “I wanted to, but I didn’t know how she’d react. To all this.”

Damian looked at her. “She loves you. She’ll stand by you.”

She nodded. “Next time.”

He opened his mouth to reply, then stopped.

His jaw clenched.

His breath hitched.

Amara frowned. “Damian?”

“I need to use the restroom,” he said, voice tight. “Excuse me.”

He walked away, fast, almost too fast.

She watched him go, a knot forming in her stomach.

Something was wrong.

Minutes passed.

The gala buzzed around her, but she couldn’t focus. She scanned the crowd, searching for him.

Then, finally, he emerged.

And her blood turned to ice.

He was walking fast, too fast, his shoulders rigid, his hands clenched into fists. His face was pale, his jaw locked, his breath shallow.

He reached her, grabbed her arm.

“We’re leaving,” he said, voice strained.

“Damian, what’s wrong?”

“Now,” he growled.

He pulled her toward the exit, practically dragging her through the crowd. Reporters called out, but he didn’t stop.

They reached the limo.

Niles opened the door.

Damian shoved her in, then followed, slamming the door behind them.

“Drive,” he ordered, voice raw.

Niles didn’t ask questions. The car surged forward.

Amara turned to Damian.

And her breath caught.

His face, his hands, were covered in raised, angry welts. Hives. Red, inflamed, spreading like fire across his skin. His neck, his wrists, the edge of his collar, everywhere.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Damian!” she cried. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

He groaned, pressing a hand to his chest. “Allergy, triggered.”

“From what? Who touched you?”

He shook his head. “No one direct. But the air. Too many people. Sweat. Skin cells. Perfume. It’s in the air. My body, it reacted.”

She grabbed his hand, his bare hand, the glove torn off in his haste.

The skin was hot, swollen.

“Niles!” she shouted. “Drive faster! He needs help!”

She turned back to Damian. “What can I do? Tell me!”

He gasped, his eyes fluttering. “Compartment. Under the seat. Black case. Injection.”

She dropped to her knees, yanking open the hidden compartment. A sleek, sterile case lay inside. She flipped it open.

A syringe. Epinephrine.

Her hands shook.

“Damian, I’ve never done this before.”

“Just, inject, thigh,” he choked. “Now.”

She grabbed his leg, pulled up the fabric of his tuxedo, found the muscle.

She plunged the needle in.

He cried out, short, sharp.

Then, slowly, his breathing eased.

The hives didn’t vanish, but the swelling in his throat seemed to recede. His grip on the seat loosened.

But he was still in pain.

Still suffering.

Without thinking, Amara crawled into the seat beside him, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him into her chest.

She held him.

Not as a patient. Not as a project.

As a man.

As her husband.

His body trembled against her. His breath was uneven, hot against her neck.

She stroked his hair, whispering, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He didn’t speak.

But he didn’t pull away.

And as the limo sped through the dark city, the lights blurring outside, Amara held the man who had saved her, now broken in her arms.

And for the first time, she didn’t feel like the one being rescued.

She was the one holding him together.

The car raced on.

The night swallowed them.

And in the silence, two broken souls clung to each other, touching, feeling, alive, in the only way they knew how.

The world could wait.

For now, this was enough.