9. The Gala
The Gala
Damian
Exhaustion clung to me like a second skin, heavy and suffocating, weighing down my muscles with the aftermath of the past few days. Sleep wasn’t something I indulged in often, not when war brewed at my doorstep. But tonight, it took me anyway.
And when it did, the world around me shifted.
The Dream Room didn’t ease me into its grasp this time.
It pulled me under in one swift, seamless motion, wrapping around me in golden light, swallowing me whole.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the surreal weight of the place settle over me—familiar and unsettling all at once.
The air was thick, charged with something I couldn’t name, the walls shimmering with a strange, fluid movement.
This time, something was different.
The space wasn’t static like before. It pulsed. It breathed.
Then, like a scene unfurling before me, the room morphed—stretching, expanding, transforming into something unexpected.
A grand ballroom materialized in place of the familiar four walls, its towering ceilings adorned with gilded murals, the kind found in old Italian estates.
Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen stars, casting a golden hue over the polished marble floors.
The murmur of voices, the soft clink of champagne glasses, and the melodic hum of a live orchestra drifted through the air.
It was a gala.
The kind my family had hosted once, back when the world was simpler, back when politics were played in ballrooms instead of battlefields.
My fingers flexed at my sides, adjusting to the sudden shift in environment. My usual attire was gone, replaced by a sharply tailored black suit, perfectly fitted, as if the dream had dressed me itself.
Instinct took over. I moved through the sea of faceless guests with ease, their presence nothing more than background noise, their laughter and chatter void of any real meaning. They weren’t real. None of them were.
Except one.
My breath hitched for a fraction of a second as my gaze landed on her.
Nichole.
She sat at the bar, effortlessly composed, her fingers tracing the delicate rim of her champagne flute.
The glow of the chandeliers caught the golden strands of her hair, setting them alight like spun silk.
The emerald green gown she wore was sleek, understated, but impossible to ignore—just like her.
It hugged her curves in a way that made her look like she belonged in this world of wealth and decadence, yet there was something about the way she held herself that told me she didn’t.
Not entirely.
She wasn’t just another elegant figure in the crowd.
She was watching. Calculating.
Waiting.
I moved toward her, slipping through the sea of faceless guests with the ease of a predator who had mastered the art of blending in. My presence shifted the air around us before I even reached her. She felt it. I knew she did.
But she didn’t turn.
She made me come to her.
I leaned against the bar beside her, close but not intruding, my voice dropping just low enough to make sure she heard it over the music.
“You clean up well.”
A smirk touched her lips before she took a slow sip from her glass, her gaze still focused ahead. “You’re not bad yourself.”
The words were effortless, but there was something beneath them. Something that made the space between us feel smaller than it was.
I watched her, studying the way she held herself—controlled, aware, guarded. But there was a crack in the fa?ade. A flicker of something unspoken in her expression.
“You always find me in the most interesting places,” she mused, finally turning her head to meet my gaze.
A slow smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth. “Maybe I’m looking for you.”
Her breath hitched. Just slightly.
But I caught it.
And judging by the way her fingers tightened around the flute in her hand, she knew I had.
The music shifted then, deep violins weaving through the melody, transforming the atmosphere into something more intimate, more dangerous. The sound of the room softened, conversations dulling into the background as the orchestra slowed into a waltz.
I extended my hand toward her, palm up, the invitation clear.
“Dance with me.”
She hesitated, just for a second. A battle played out behind her eyes, a silent war between logic and something else entirely.
Then, without a word, she placed her hand in mine.
Her touch was light, cautious, but not hesitant.
She had already made her choice.
I led her toward the dance floor, guiding her effortlessly through the shifting bodies of the crowd. The chandeliers above us gleamed like suspended constellations, their glow casting soft shadows along the marble floor. Around us, the world blurred into nothing but golden light and quiet music.
None of it mattered.
Just her.
My hand slid to her waist, pulling her close but careful to maintain control—restraint. She followed my lead instinctively, her movements graceful, effortless. Like she had been made for this, like we had done this before.
Maybe we had.
In a way neither of us understood.
Her gaze locked onto mine, steady, searching. She wasn’t just following the steps of the dance—she was reading me, peeling back layers, looking for something beneath the surface.
I let her.
The silence between us was louder than the music. It pulsed, thrummed with something neither of us had the words for.
Finally, she exhaled, her voice softer than before. “You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.”
The admission sent something sharp through my chest, but I didn’t let it show.
Instead, I tightened my grip on her waist just slightly, my voice low, unreadable.
“So are you.”
Her fingers tensed in mine, just for a fraction of a second, as if she hadn’t expected my answer.
I didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t tease.
Because I meant it.
The music swelled, drawing us closer, inch by inch, until the only thing between us was breath and heat and something unspoken.
Something inevitable.
And neither of us wanted to stop it.
But suddenly the warmth of Nichole’s body against mine faded too quickly.
The moment was slipping, dissolving like smoke before I could hold on to it.
The music, the golden chandeliers, the velvet luxury of the gala—all of it warped, the Dream Room fracturing at the edges.
I felt it unravel, the pull of reality yanking me back with an unforgiving grip.
No. Not yet.
I fought it, trying to hold onto her. My fingers tightened around hers, but she was already slipping away. Her gaze met mine, wide with something unreadable—fear, realization, or maybe the same desperate need to understand what was happening between us.
Then, in an instant, the world disappeared.
I gasped awake. My body jerked, breath coming in sharp bursts, my pulse hammering against my ribs. My sheets were damp with sweat, twisted around me like restraints. My muscles ached as if I’d actually spent hours dancing, moving, chasing something just beyond my reach.
But it wasn’t just the feeling of the dream that clung to me. It was the weight of her.
I shoved the sheets aside and sat up, my feet pressing against the cold floor, grounding myself.
My hands flexed, still remembering the way her body had fit against mine, the warmth of her skin, the soft inhale she took when I had pulled her just a little closer.
It wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been.
The air in my bedroom felt stifling, too quiet despite the faint hum of the city outside my window. My mind raced, replaying every second of the Dream Room—every glance, every word, every question that lingered in her eyes before the dream had shattered.
I raked a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply, trying to force logic back into my veins.
But nothing about this was logical. The Dream Room had given me information before.
It had shown me things I shouldn’t have been able to see.
But now, it wasn’t just showing me secrets. It was pulling Nichole into them, too.
A slow, dark thought settled in the back of my mind, one I couldn’t ignore.
Why did she keep showing up in my Dreams?
I needed answers.
And there was only one way to get them.
I paced back and forth, my movements sharp, controlled, but every inhale was laced with frustration. The city lights beyond the window flickered against the glass, but my mind was nowhere near the world outside.
My hands curled into fists. I didn’t believe in coincidence. That wasn’t how my world worked. If something happened, it was because someone made it happen. Someone controlled the pieces on the board.
So, who was moving them now?
I laid back down and closed my eyes, trying to drag up every detail of the dream.
The weight of Nichole’s hand in mine. The way she looked at me, searching for something even she couldn’t name.
The tension between us, thick enough to cut through.
The second I had asked her— What are you hiding?
—and the way she had frozen, like I had struck something too close to the truth.
I ground my teeth.
She knew something.
Even if she didn’t understand it yet, she felt it, just like I did.
It didn’t matter what this was. It didn’t matter what connection the Dream Room had forced between us. There was only one way forward.
I had to find out what Nichole knew.
And I wasn’t going to do it from a distance.
Back in the Dream Room, the club was alive with heat and motion, pulsing bodies filling the space between flashing lights and deep bass.
It was high-end, exclusive—one of mine. A place where business and pleasure blurred into something more dangerous, more intoxicating.
A place where secrets were exchanged as easily as drinks.
It was also the only place I knew Nichole would be tonight.
I spotted her the second I stepped inside.
She was at the bar, her back to me, her golden hair catching the low light as she lifted a glass to her lips. She was calm, poised, as if the entire world around her didn’t exist. But I knew better.
She was waiting.
For me.