Chapter Eight - Emery
I stand in front of the mirror, every muscle in my body tense, arms pinned awkwardly to my sides by the unfamiliar weight of the gown Damien’s staff has picked out for me.
The silk is heavy and expensive, dark green, clinging in ways that make me feel exposed, my curves on display for an audience I never chose.
I can’t escape the hard glare of the penthouse lights, or the way my own face looks back at me: stranger, doll, victim in disguise.
Two assistants hover, their hands everywhere—fixing the necklace Damien approved, smoothing my hair, fussing with the drape of the dress.
They chirp compliments I don’t want to hear.
“Stunning, Miss Johnson.”
“Mr. Rudenko likes this look on you.”
I snap, sharper than I mean, “Can you just stop? I don’t need help. Seriously, enough.”
My voice wobbles, thick with anger I try to hide, and the older assistant’s eyes go wide, startled. They back off, but only a little, their fingers still busy, as if my protest is just part of the ritual.
My heart pounds as I stare at the woman in the mirror. I mouth words I can’t say aloud.
He’s using you. You’re leverage. You’re a hostage in silk.
My nails bite into my palm. I want to tear the necklace off, to kick off the stupid heels, to run until the city blurs; but I can’t even move without one of them swooping in to fix something else.
I mutter, “He’s literally using my life as collateral.” My voice cracks at the end, just a whisper, but the words hang there, ugly and raw.
Footsteps behind me. I see Damien’s reflection first. He’s in an impeccable suit, expression unreadable, his eyes scanning every detail of my appearance. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t smile, only inspects me like he’s checking an asset, a property, a piece of art he’s about to auction off.
He nods, cool and clipped. “That will do. Tonight is about optics, Emery. You know what’s expected.”
The assistants go very still, lips pressed tight, as if a single wrong move might get them fired. My blood surges, defiance rising.
“Do you have any idea how cruel this is?” I ask, voice low but trembling. “You’re parading me out there like a prize, a warning. Do you care at all what this does to me? Or my family?”
His gaze flickers, but his answer is measured, practiced. “Your parents are safe as long as you cooperate.” He doesn’t even look at me when he says it. “You know the alternative.”
A cold silence fills the room. He turns, already finished with me, and walks out without a word of comfort or apology, leaving the threat suspended in the air like a noose.
My throat tightens. For a second, I can’t breathe. The assistants flutter, uncertain, but I wave them off.
“Just give me a minute,” I snap.
They vanish, heels whispering across the marble, the sound fading until it’s just me and my reflection again.
I grip the edge of the vanity, knuckles white, and stare at the woman I’ve become. My mouth forms a brittle smile, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. I practice it again, this time with my head high, shoulders back.
You are not broken. You are not powerless. You can survive this.
The pep talk is thin armor. Underneath, fear knots with something far more dangerous—a flutter that betrays me, a twisted thrill at being seen, chosen, claimed.
I hate it. I hate that I can’t untangle the relief of knowing my family is safe from the heat in my chest whenever Damien’s eyes linger too long.
A car is waiting. The moment I step into the hall, one of his men falls in behind me, leading me to the elevator. My shoes pinch with every step.
The lobby is a blur of marble and quiet deference—staff looking away, strangers pretending not to stare. My chest tightens. I feel watched, branded.
Damien is already waiting by the car, flanked by security.
He offers his hand—habit, not kindness. I take it because I have no choice, because I have to play my part.
His fingers are warm and sure, and even that small contact sends a jolt through me that I can’t disguise.
He glances down, eyes unreadable, and then I’m inside, door shut, cocooned in leather and glass and tension.
He doesn’t look at me. He checks his watch, gives a clipped order to the driver, then settles into silence.
The city rolls by, glittering and indifferent. I grip my clutch purse until my knuckles ache, breathing slow, forcing myself to remember every instruction: smile, stand tall, say nothing real, betray nothing.
I watch his profile—hard jaw, steady eyes, the faint scar at his temple. He’s beautiful in a way that makes me angry, cold and carved and out of reach. This is your life now, I remind myself.
You belong to him, at least tonight. If you want your family to stay safe, you play along. You survive.
The car slows in front of a hotel lit up for the occasion. Paparazzi swarm the sidewalk, lights flashing. My heart hammers.
Damien leans over, his voice soft but absolute: “Remember what I told you. Tonight is about obedience, not feelings. You smile, you stand beside me, and you do exactly what I say.”
I nod, mouth dry, hating the yes that escapes my lips. He gets out first, then turns, offering his hand again as the door opens. I step out, the world exploding in flashes and shouts, my arm linked in his.
For a moment, I freeze, but his grip tightens—a warning and a comfort, all at once.
Inside, the ballroom glows with money and power. Heads turn. Whispers rise. Damien walks with the calm of a man who owns the room.
I walk with him because I have no choice, every step a reminder that this is my first real test as his possession. I force my chin up, that brittle smile fixed in place, hating how much I feel, how much I want to matter, how much I want to survive.
I tell myself: Just get through tonight. Just keep breathing. No one can see how close you are to falling apart—except him. And that’s exactly what he wants.
The ballroom is an ocean of glass and gold, the air thick with power and ambition. Spotlights glitter off champagne flutes, tuxedos, and sequined gowns. Around me, the city’s elite swirl: politicians, investors, heads of families whose names fill headlines for all the wrong reasons.
The room is perfumed with money and threat. I hold my posture tight, my smile tighter, balancing on stilettos and nerves, while Damien’s presence is a silent gravity pulling at every move I make.
It’s a performance, and I know the script. I laugh at polite jokes, nod when old men reminisce about the old days, and thank women with polite warmth as they fawn over the ring Damien insisted I wear.
I answer questions about our engagement with careful, manufactured delight, biting back the urge to scream.
Damien stays just close enough to watch everything—a shadow in my periphery, his gaze burning into the back of my neck. He never strays far. Not even for a second.
Each interaction is a test. I can feel him monitoring the tilt of my head, the shape of every smile.
I can feel his eyes narrow when a senator’s son leans in too close, a practiced charmer with a wine glass in one hand and confidence in the other.
He tells a joke that actually lands, and before I can stop myself, I laugh for real, quick, unguarded, my hand rising to touch my lips.
The reaction is instant. Damien’s expression darkens, his jaw tight. He’s beside me before the punchline fades, sliding an arm around my waist.
His hand is firm, fingers pressing into my side with a possessiveness that isn’t gentle.
“Excuse us,” he says smoothly, his voice velvet over steel. “I promised Emery I’d introduce her to an old friend.” He doesn’t look at the other man again.
I let myself be steered, pulse fluttering at my throat, both furious and electrified. He keeps his hand on my hip a moment longer than necessary, the heat of his palm seeping through silk and skin.
When I glance up, his gaze is all warning and want.
We stop near the edge of the balcony, the glass doors open just enough to let in city noise and cool air.
The party crowd is a blurred wash of laughter behind us, lights turning the night into a stage.
Damien moves closer, boxing me in against the wall with the effortless dominance he never needs to raise his voice for.
He leans in, mouth by my ear, voice low and dangerous. “Your smile should only be for me.”
His fingers dig into my hip, not enough to bruise, but enough that I feel every ridge of his hand, every unspoken command.
I suck in a breath, cheeks burning hot. “I’m not your doll,” I shoot back, trying to muster the same steadiness he always shows. “You can’t parade me around and expect me to act like I don’t exist.”
He doesn’t back away. If anything, he moves closer, his body nearly flush with mine. “You’re not a doll,” he murmurs, his eyes on mine. “You’re my future wife, and you’ll remember that.”
My chest aches with anger and something worse. Something like want. “You don’t own me.”
His lips curl, half amusement, half threat. “You say that now.”
I hate the way my body responds, the way my pulse skips, the way his nearness makes everything sharper and more complicated. I force my voice to stay even. “People are watching.”
“Good.” He finally releases my hip, but not before his thumb strokes over the fabric, deliberate and slow, a silent promise of all the ways he could claim me if I let him.
The night is a blur of movement and control.
Damien corrects my answers when they stray from the narrative he’s constructed, leaning in to remind me of the right details—where we met, what drew us together, how excited we both are for the future.
He introduces me with pointed emphasis: “My fiancée, Emery. She’s already proving herself invaluable.”
Every word is calculated, every introduction a marker laid down in the sand.
When another guest lingers a beat too long, asking about my work, Damien’s hand slides possessively around my waist, his smile sharp as glass.
“Emery’s expertise has already transformed the way we do business,” he says, gaze flicking between us, daring the man to press further. He doesn’t.
I feel my independence fraying, piece by piece. I’m reduced to nods and smiles, a silent partner in his charade.
I fight to keep a sliver of myself intact, meeting each challenge with as much dignity as I can muster. Still, every touch, every whispered reminder, every territorial glance burns through my defenses.
Near midnight, a trio of donors gather around, champagne in hand, asking how we met. Damien opens his mouth, but I cut in, words sharper than intended, voice dripping sarcasm.
“Oh, you know, he stole my heart. Just wouldn’t take no for an answer.” I flash the most dazzling, fake smile I can muster.
The table laughs, delighted. Even Damien’s lips twitch, but his eyes glitter with a warning heat.
One of the guests says, “Sounds dangerous,” and I answer, “You have no idea.”
The laughter doubles, rippling around the table, and for a moment I feel like I’ve won something. A small, dangerous thrill buzzes under my skin.
When the laughter fades, Damien leans in, lips nearly brushing my ear. “Careful, darling. Even rebellion has its limits.”
The rest of the night is a lesson in restraint and ownership. He keeps me close, a hand on my lower back, a finger trailing down my arm as he introduces me to more men I’m meant to impress and more women I’m meant to outshine.
He never lets me slip too far from his side. When I do, even for a moment, he finds me—drawn by an invisible thread, a reminder that no matter how many eyes are on us, I am never really free.
By the time we return to the car, my feet ache and my jaw hurts from smiling, but my mind is blazing.
I lean my head back against the seat, trying to breathe, trying to sort fear from desire, anger from arousal. Damien watches me in the darkness, his gaze unreadable, and I know he’s tallying every smile, every word, every sign of resistance.
He’s always calculating, always claiming. Tonight, I survived his world on his terms. I wonder if he knows how much I hated it, or how much of me, despite everything, wanted to stay.