BECOMING MRS CROSS

008

The ballroom was a glittering cage.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light over hundreds of people who looked like they belonged to another species. Women glided in gowns that seemed sewn out of starlight, their diamonds winking with every movement. Men wore tuxedos fitted so sharply, laughing in deep, practiced tones as though nothing in the world had ever unsettled them.

Lena Carter….Mrs. Cross, she corrected bitterly, felt like an imposter in borrowed silk.

The makeup artist Damon’s people had pulled her into before the event had painted her face into perfection. The stylist had zipped her into a dress that clung in all the places it should and shimmered under the chandeliers. On the outside, she blended. On the inside, she was still the waitress from Brooklyn with a mountain of bills waiting back home.

And every time her gaze flicked to Damon, the reminder cut deeper.

He stood across the ballroom, already folded into a circle of men who looked like they could buy and sell countries. He belonged here. His posture said it, his suit said it, the controlled way he listened and spoke said it. He looked untouchable. He looked like she was just another asset standing at his side.

Except she wasn’t even at his side. Not anymore. She’d slipped away after their entrance, needing air before she suffocated under the weight of so many flashing cameras and curious eyes.

Now she lingered near the grand staircase, clutching a glass of champagne she didn’t really want, trying to slow the pulse still hammering in her throat. Damon had kissed her on the balcony earlier, not sweetly, not softly, but like she was a possession he was stamping his name on. And damn her traitorous body, she had kissed him back.

She hadn’t recovered since.

“You look like you could use another one of those.”

The voice startled her. Smooth, playful. She turned and found a man about Damon’s age, though softer in presence, with unruly dark hair and eyes that glinted with easy humor. He offered her a fresh flute of champagne with a tilt of his head.

She hesitated, then accepted it, grateful for something to do with her hands. “Thanks.”

“Julian.” He gave a short, mock bow. “And unless all the tabloids are wrong, you must be the infamous Mrs. Cross.”

Her lips parted in surprise, then curved despite herself. “Infamous already?”

“Well, marrying Damon Cross overnight tends to make waves. The city hasn’t stopped buzzing since the news broke.” He clinked his glass gently against hers. “Congratulations, I suppose. Though I imagine you’re tired of hearing it.”

She huffed a laugh. “I haven’t exactly heard it much. Unless you count stares and whispers.”

“Ah, New York society. Sharks in gowns.” He leaned casually against the banister, his posture so relaxed it was almost disarming. “Don’t take it personally. Half of them wish they were you, the other half wish they were Damon.”

Her cheeks warmed despite her efforts to stay cool. “I didn’t exactly plan for this.”

Julian’s smile widened. “Most people don’t. At least, not the Vegas version.”

Her head jerked toward him. “How…..”

“Come on, Lena. May I call you Lena?” At her nod, he continued, “Of course I know. Everybody knows. Your wedding certificate is public record, and gossip travels faster than light in this city. You’ve landed yourself at the center of the storm.”

She frowned, taking a sip of champagne. “It doesn’t feel like a storm. More like quicksand.”

“Same difference.” Julian’s gaze softened. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re handling yourself well. You haven’t fainted, screamed, or dumped your drink on anyone yet. By my standards, that’s success.”

A small laugh escaped her, unexpected and relieving. “Low standards.”

“Realistic ones,” he countered with a grin.

For the first time all night, Lena’s shoulders eased. Julian was different from Damon, lighter, easier, more human. He didn’t carry the same crushing weight in his presence. He asked about her, not about her marriage. He cracked jokes about the orchestra’s endless waltzes, told her about a disastrous dinner where he’d accidentally insulted an art dealer’s prized collection, and teased her until she found herself laughing more freely than she had in weeks.

It felt good. Dangerous, but good.

And then the air shifted.

She didn’t see Damon approach. She felt it, the subtle tightening of the space, the prickle along her spine that warned of a predator nearby.

Julian’s gaze flicked past her shoulder, and Lena turned.

Damon stood a few feet away, framed by the ballroom’s golden glow. His expression was calm, controlled, but his eyes… his eyes were arctic steel locked on Julian.

“Julian,” Damon said smoothly, though there was no warmth in his tone. “Making friends?”

Julian smiled easily. “Just keeping your wife company. She looked like she could use it.”

Lena’s stomach clenched. Damon’s gaze shifted to her, sharp and unyielding. “I’ll take it from here.”

The words weren’t loud, but they left no room for argument.

Julian tipped his glass in mock salute, unfazed. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to come between newlyweds.” His eyes lingered on Lena a second longer, mischief flickering. “Pleasure, Lena.”

And then he was gone, swallowed back into the glittering crowd.

Before she could catch her breath, Damon’s hand closed around hers, firm, commanding and he pulled her toward the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another waltz as though on cue.

Her heels faltered. “Damon, I don’t…”

“Smile,” he ordered softly, his palm pressing to the small of her back. “People are watching.”

She wanted to fight him. To pull away, to remind him she wasn’t his puppet. But dozens of eyes were already turning toward them, curiosity sparking in their gleaming gazes. So she lifted her chin, set her teeth, and let him lead her into the dance.

Damon moved with practiced precision, his steps smooth and commanding. Lena tried to keep up, but every turn, every shift only reminded her how tightly he held the reins.

“You seemed… entertained,” he said finally, voice pitched low enough for only her.

“He was nice,” Lena shot back. “And easy to talk to.”

Damon’s grip at her waist tightened almost imperceptibly. “Men like Julian don’t talk for free.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means not everyone in this room is harmless.” His gaze swept the crowd, then cut back to hers. “And you don’t decide who you can trust. Not anymore.”

Heat flared in her chest. “So you get to dictate who I talk to?”

He leaned closer, his mouth a breath from her ear. “When you carry my name, yes.”

Her pulse thudded violently. His voice wasn’t raised, but the conviction in it struck like iron.

“You kissed me earlier,” she hissed, desperate to regain ground.

His mouth curved, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “People were watching.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“It’s the truth.”

Her heart plummeted. For a second, she’d wondered if there had been something more in it, heat, desire, maybe even vulnerability. But of course Damon Cross would reduce it to strategy.

“So I’m just a prop to you,” she bit out.

His eyes darkened, and for a moment she swore the room around them faded, leaving only his gaze burning into hers. “Don’t confuse necessity with insignificance. You matter because you’re mine. And when people see you, they see me.”

The words sliced and tangled in her chest. She hated them. She hated the claim, the arrogance, the way her body shivered at the force behind them.

“You don’t own me,” she whispered.

His smirk was slow, dangerous. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The music swelled, and they spun through the glittering crowd. To the watching eyes, they were flawless, magnetic, seamless, the perfect couple. But Lena knew better. Every step was a battle, every touch a reminder that she was tethered to a man who didn’t ask, didn’t plead….he took.

The song ended, but Damon didn’t let her go. His hand stayed at her waist, his grip firm.

“Stay close tonight,” he murmured, his voice so low it vibrated through her chest. “Not everyone here is toasting our marriage.”

A chill skated down her spine. The tone wasn’t jealousy, it was something darker. A warning.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. He only released her hand, turned, and greeted another guest with a smooth smile, his mask snapping back into place.

Lena stood there, pulse hammering, every nerve still sparking from the weight of his words. She looked out at the ballroom, the laughter, the jewels, the false smiles and suddenly it felt like more than a party. It felt like she’d been dropped into a den of predators, and Damon was the only one who knew just how sharp their teeth were.

And for the first time, she wondered if marrying him hadn’t just trapped her in his world.

Maybe it had painted a target on her back.