POV: Alexandra Vaughn
London society has a way of pretending that everything glittering is good.
But I've spent my entire career proving that beauty lies on the witness stand, in the press, and especially in people.
The night of Lydia's engagement party was no exception.
The ballroom of The Grosvenor was drenched in light chandeliers like constellations, champagne towers glistening gold, and a string quartet playing something delicate enough to make people think they had class. Every guest looked as though they'd walked straight out of a glossy magazine spread.
And there I was: the woman who'd rather be cross-examining them all.
Lydia spotted me almost instantly. "Alex!" she squealed, rushing forward in a cloud of silk and perfume. Her eyes sparkled, her happiness so radiant it almost hurt to look at.
"You look breathtaking," I said honestly. "Congratulations again."
"Thank you," she said, clutching my hand like a lifeline. "He's here, you know. Damian. Come meet him."
I didn't have time to prepare before she was already pulling me across the marble floor, through clusters of laughing, jeweled people, toward the man I'd only seen in headlines.
And then there he was.
Damian Cross.
In person, he was sharper. Taller than I expected, broad-shouldered, every line of his tailored suit screaming quiet authority. He stood with a kind of contained energy, the way dangerous men do when they know they could destroy you, but won't… yet.
His gaze met mine before Lydia could even say my name. Dark eyes, unreadable and slow-moving, taking in everything and revealing nothing.
"Damian," Lydia said brightly, "this is my best friend, Alexandra Vaughn, London's most terrifying barrister."
He extended a hand. "Terrifying, hmm? That's a rare compliment in this city."
His voice was deep, smooth, the kind that could make a courtroom go silent.
I took his hand. Firm. Warm. Steady. The briefest touch but it lingered longer than it should have.
"I don't terrify," I replied, meeting his gaze. "I persuade."
For a second, the air between us thickened, the hum of electricity, curiosity, danger. Then Lydia laughed, unaware of the tension she'd just introduced.
"You two are impossible," she said. "Come, they're announcing the engagement toast."
We moved to the long banquet table. Crystal glasses. White roses. Too-perfect smiles. Lydia was radiant as Damian raised his glass, his expression softening slightly as he looked at her.
"To the woman who reminds me that control is overrated," he said, and the room erupted in applause.
I raised my glass too, but the words sank deeper than they should have.
Control is overrated.
Coming from him, it didn't sound like a romantic confession. It sounded like a challenge. Later, when the music softened and the guests began drifting to the dance floor, I found myself alone on the terrace, watching the city lights blur through misted glass.
The door opened behind me.
"Escaping?"
That voice again; low, measured, dangerous.
I turned. "Just avoiding small talk."
"Then we're both guilty," he said, stepping beside me. His cologne :clean, understated hit me first. Then the heat of him. "I never learned how to enjoy parties."
"You don't seem like a man who needs to."
A faint smirk touched his mouth. "You read people well."
"It's my profession."
"I know," he said quietly. "I've followed your cases."
That surprised me. "You've followed my cases?"
He nodded, his gaze steady. "You're the only barrister I've seen dismantle a courtroom like a surgeon. No theatrics. Just precision. That's rare."
I should have said thank you. I should have smiled politely and walked away. Instead, I felt something stir, not pride, not ego, but recognition.
Because Damian Cross didn't compliment. He observed. And in his observation, I felt seen, not as the legend people whispered about, but as the woman who built herself from iron.
"I don't win for applause," I said.
"I didn't think you did."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was charged like the air before lightning strikes.
Lydia's laughter drifted out from inside, bright and innocent. I forced myself to look away from Damian, back at the glittering skyline.
"She's happy," I said, my tone even. "You make her happy."
He didn't answer immediately. "She deserves to be."
It was the right response. The perfect one. And yet… something in the way he said it made my chest tighten.
When he finally turned to go, he paused at the door. "It was good to meet you, Alexandra Vaughn."
"Likewise," I managed.
But after he left, I stayed on that terrace far too long, glass in hand, pulse unsteady, the taste of champagne sharp on my tongue.
Because for the first time in years, I felt off-balance.
And I hated it.
When I got home that night, I didn't go to bed. I poured another glass of wine and stood by the window, staring at the endless sprawl of city lights.
My mind replayed everything: his voice, his eyes, that infuriating calm. I told myself it meant nothing. He was Lydia's fiancé. Lydia's.
But no matter how many times I repeated it, I couldn't silence the thought echoing in my head:
Why did it feel like he'd seen straight through me?
And why, when he looked away, did I wish he hadn't?