The Chancellor's ballroom was dripping in elegance—crystal chandeliers, soft jazz, and the kind of people who drank vintage champagne and smiled with knives behind their backs.
Arabella clutched her clutch tighter, feeling more like a well-dressed intruder than a billionaire's wife. Damon had disappeared into a circle of investors, and for a blissful ten minutes, she was left alone—until a voice cut through the air like glass.
"Well, well. If it isn't the Monroe girl."
The tone was sweet. The smile wasn't.
Arabella turned to find Lana Westwood—supermodel, heiress, and Damon's ex of two very public, very steamy years.
She was tall, blonde, and wearing a dress that looked more like expensive lingerie than formalwear.
Lana's eyes drifted to Ara's ring. "So it's true. He married you."
Arabella raised an eyebrow. "You sound shocked."
"I just figured Damon would marry someone… with class."
Ara's smile didn't falter. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing when I saw you walk in."
A few guests nearby coughed to cover their laughter. Lana's eyes darkened, but she leaned in anyway, voice dripping venom.
"You do realize he's only using you, right? Damon doesn't love. He consumes. And once he's done, you'll be nothing but another pretty face he walked over."
Arabella leaned forward, just enough for their noses to almost touch.
"Good," she whispered, "because I don't do love either. And I bite back."
Before Lana could fire back, a deep voice cut in.
"Is there a problem here?"
Damon had returned, eyes locked on Lana with the cold fury of a glacier.
Lana blinked, quickly composing herself. "Not at all. Just girl talk."
"Good," he said sharply. "Then you'll understand when I say this: Stay away from my wife."
The entire room went quiet. Even the band missed a note.
Ara froze. My wife.
Lana's jaw dropped—just slightly—but Damon had already turned to Ara, sliding an arm around her waist in a move so smooth it made her knees wobble.
"You okay?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
She wanted to push him away.
But the fire in her chest? The heat pooling low in her belly? That was real.
"I handled it," she said quietly.
He chuckled. "That's what I like about you, Arabella. You don't need me… but you look damn good when you're beside me."
Before she could respond, he led her to the center of the room—where the band had shifted to a slow tune.
"I don't dance," she whispered.
"Tonight, you do."
He pulled her into his arms, one hand on her waist, the other capturing her fingers. She should've fought it.
Instead, she melted into him, body betraying every word she swore earlier. Their movements synced effortlessly, bodies whispering things their mouths wouldn't dare.
"Damon," she said softly, looking up.
His eyes locked with hers.
And for one second, just one—
—he looked like a man who wanted her.
Not for the image.
Not for revenge.
But for her.
Then his hand slid down, resting dangerously low on her waist. His lips brushed her temple as he whispered:
"Keep looking at me like that, Ara, and I won't wait till the contract ends to make you mine for real."