Page 14 of Bossh*le Daddy
But when the car stopped outside the venue—a private club that screamed old money and older secrets—and the first camera flash exploded through the window, Damian's hand found my waist. His fingers splayed possessively against silk as he guidedme from the car, and the contact burned through every layer of pretense.
"Smile," he murmured against my ear, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of my hair. "They're watching."
As the cameras erupted in earnest and his arm pulled me against his side, I realized the real danger wasn't in being caught in his net. It was in how desperately I wanted to be.
The ballroom opened before us like a golden mouth ready to swallow me whole. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors polished to mirror brightness, turning every surface into a reminder of how much I didn't belong here. The scent hit me immediately—a suffocating blend of expensive perfume, champagne, and cigars that made my empty stomach turn.
Damian's hand remained fixed at my waist, fingers pressed into silk like he was branding me through the fabric. "Breathe," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "You look like you're about to bolt."
Because I was. Every instinct screamed at me to run back to my cracked mirror and yellow curtains, to the safety of a world where I knew the rules. But his grip anchored me, kept me moving forward into the sea of Manhattan's elite.
"Damian." A silver-haired man in a burgundy bow tie materialized before us, teeth too white, smile too wide. "We heard you'd be bringing someone tonight. Didn't quite believe it after the Veronica . . . situation."
The pause before "situation" carried weight, judgment, barely concealed glee at past wounds. I felt Damian's body tense against mine, though his expression remained carved from ice.
"Richard." He didn't return the smile. "May I introduce my fiancée, Isla James."
Fiancée. The word dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water. Richard's eyes widened, darting between us withundisguised shock. His gaze lingered on my hand—my ringless hand—and I fought the urge to hide it in the folds of my dress.
"Fiancée?" Richard repeated, like he was testing the word for cracks. "Well, this is . . . unexpected. How long has this been going on?"
"Long enough." Damian's tone suggested the conversation was over, but Richard pressed on with the tenacity of someone who smelled gossip.
"And how did you meet? I don't recall seeing Miss James at any of the usual—"
"Isla works with me." Damian cut him off smoothly, his thumb starting a slow, distracting circle against my waist. "Proximity led to inevitability. Sometimes the best things are right in front of you."
The words sounded rehearsed because they were, but the way he looked at me when he said them—intense, possessive, almost hungry—made them feel like truth. Heat crawled up my neck, and I managed what I hoped was a devoted smile.
"How romantic," Richard's wife, a brittle blonde dripping in diamonds, cooed with false sweetness. "From secretary to fiancée. Every girl's dream."
The condescension in her voice made my teeth clench, but before I could respond—and say what, exactly?—Damian was already moving us along with a dismissive "Enjoy your evening."
The pattern repeated with sickening regularity. Approach, shock, thinly veiled insults wrapped in congratulations. I smiled until my cheeks ached, pressed against Damian's side until I memorized the heat of him through expensive fabric. His cologne wrapped around me, mixing with champagne bubbles and making me dizzy.
Or maybe that was just him. The way he introduced me with increasing possessiveness, like saying "my fiancée" enough times would make it true. The way his fingers tightenedwhenever someone's gaze lingered too long on my exposed leg. The way he'd lean down to murmur commentary in my ear, his breath making me shiver.
"Henderson's wife is fishing for details about the Singapore deal," he said during one such moment, lips barely brushing my ear. "Smile like I'm whispering sweet nothings instead of corporate secrets."
I smiled, but it felt different now. Softer. Real. Because having him this close, feeling the rumble of his voice through shared space, was scrambling my ability to distinguish performance from truth.
"You're good at this," he said after I'd successfully deflected the fourth inquiry about wedding dates with a mysterious "we're keeping things private for now."
"I'm good at pretending," I corrected, though even that felt like a lie. Was I pretending when my pulse jumped every time he touched me? When I leaned into him without conscious thought? When I found myself cataloging the exact shade of gray his eyes turned under chandelier light?
We worked the room like dancers who'd found their rhythm. He led, I followed, and somewhere between the ambassador's wife and the pharmaceutical heiress, I stopped having to think about it. My body knew where to be—tucked against his side, angled toward him like a flower to sun, playing the part of a woman completely devoted.
The problem was how little acting it required.
"Darling," I found myself saying when a Wall Street prince asked about our plans for children, the endearment slipping out naturally. "We're taking things one step at a time."
Damian's hand flexed against my waist, and when I glanced up, something dark and pleased flickered in his eyes. Like I'd passed a test I didn't know I was taking.
But then the energy in the room shifted. A ripple of awareness that made conversations pause and heads turn. Damian went rigid against me, every muscle coiling with sudden tension.
I followed his gaze across the ballroom to where a man stood like a shadow against the golden backdrop. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray suit. He was handsome in a dangerous way—all sharp edges and barely leashed violence. When he smiled, it was a predator’s smile.
"Who—?" I started to ask.
