The sharks were circling, and she was the fresh meat Damien had thrown into the water.
The private dining room at Le Ciel was a fortress of mahogany and crystal, its long table set with gold-rimmed plates and heavy silver that gleamed under the chandelier's unforgiving light. The board members—eight men in their fifties and sixties, their suits bespoke, their cufflinks flashing wealth—sat like kings, their eyes dissecting Elara the moment she entered on Damien's arm. The crimson cocktail dress clung to her curves, the high slit exposing her thigh with every step, the plunging neckline framing the diamond choker like a brand. She was a vision, a trophy, and they knew it. Damien's hand rested at the small of her back, his touch possessive, guiding her to her seat at his right with the precision of a chess master placing a queen.
The air was thick with cigar smoke and old money, the conversation a low hum of market projections and offshore accounts. Elara's pulse thundered in her ears, the choker's diamonds biting into her skin, a constant reminder of the role she was forced to play. Damien's smile was faint, amused, as if he were enjoying a private joke at her expense. He hadn't spoken since they arrived, letting the board's scrutiny do the work, testing her in this den of wolves.
"Mrs. Vance," drawled Harold Grayson, the oldest member, his voice dripping with condescension as he swirled his bourbon. "Quite the… ascent you've made. From fetching coffee to fetching an empire. Tell me, how does a girl like you wrap her head around something as complex as market volatility?"
The table chuckled, a ripple of patronizing amusement. Elara's fingers tightened around her water glass, her nails digging into her palm. She felt Damien's gaze on her, his silence a command: perform. Three years as his assistant had given her a front-row seat to his world—board meetings, financial reports, the intricate dance of power and profit. She knew Grayson's game, knew he was baiting her, expecting her to falter.
She set her glass down, her movements deliberate, her voice calm but edged with steel. "Market volatility isn't about wrapping your head around it, Mr. Grayson," she said, meeting his eyes. "It's about anticipating it. Your concern about the Q3 dip in emerging markets ignores the 12% yield in our Southeast Asian bonds, which offset the loss by 8.7%. If you're worried about volatility, perhaps you should review the risk mitigation strategy I drafted for Damien last year—before I was 'fetching coffee.'"
The table went silent, the air crackling with shock. Grayson's face flushed, his bourbon glass pausing mid-air. The other members exchanged glances, impressed and wary, their amusement replaced by something colder. Elara's heart pounded, her retort a spark of defiance in a sea of submission, but she held her ground, her chin lifted, her eyes steady.
Damien's smile vanished, replaced by a dark, unreadable intensity. His hand, hidden beneath the table, settled on her thigh, his fingers digging into the exposed skin through the dress's slit. The touch was possessive, punishing, a silent warning. He leaned toward her, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a low growl meant only for her. "Careful, wife."
The dinner dragged on, the board's questions sharper now, probing her knowledge, testing her limits. She answered each with precision, her responses honed from years of shadowing Damien, but his grip on her thigh never loosened, his eyes never left her face. He was no longer amused. He was calculating, his obsession tinged with something new—jealousy, raw and dangerous.
In the car, the partition was up, the city lights blurring past in streaks of gold and crimson. Elara sat rigid, the crimson dress a cage, the choker a noose. Damien's silence was a storm, the air between them charged with tension. Then, without warning, his hand shot out, grabbing her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw with bruising force. He forced her to meet his gaze, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fury.
"You will not show me up in public again," he said, his voice low, venomous, the jealousy a new, dangerous variable. "Your intelligence is for my private use, not for you to wield against my board. Do you understand?"
Her breath hitched, pain flaring in her jaw, but she nodded, the movement sharp against his grip. "Yes," she whispered, her voice raw, the word a surrender.
His fingers tightened, his thumb brushing her lips, a mockery of tenderness. "Good girl," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with triumph and warning. "Don't make me remind you again."
He released her, settling back in his seat, his gaze returning to the window as if nothing had happened. Elara's chin throbbed, her heart pounding, the choker cutting into her throat. The car sped through the city, the lights a blur, her defiance a spark that had only fueled his obsession. She was his, body and mind, and tonight, he'd made sure she knew the cost of stepping out of line.