BECOMING MRS CROSS

009

The mansion was quiet the morning after the Event , too quiet.

Lena sat on the edge of the enormous bed, bare feet pressed into the rug, staring at the sunlight spilling across the floor. Her head ached faintly from too much champagne, but that wasn’t what kept her awake most of the night.

It was Damon.

The memory of him at the event clung to her like smoke, the way his hand pressed against her back, guiding her like she was his property. The way he kissed her on the balcony, hard and unyielding, and how she’d kissed him back even though every rational thought told her to push him away.

She should’ve hated him more for it. Instead, she lay awake feeling the phantom burn of his mouth against hers.

A knock shattered the quiet. Before she could answer, the door opened, and Damon stepped in as if it were his room, not hers. He carried a folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, already dressed in a dark suit that looked like power stitched into fabric.

“You should eat,” he said, setting the coffee on her nightstand. His voice was smooth, even, but the command beneath it was obvious.

“I’m not hungry.”

He studied her for a beat, then pushed the folder onto the dresser and sat the plate he was holding on the bed beside her. Toast, fruit, eggs, nothing fancy, but arranged neatly. His eyes flicked to her untouched stomach, then back to her face.

“Eat,” he repeated, lower this time.

She glared at him, but her stomach betrayed her with a low growl. She picked up the fork, stabbing a piece of melon more out of defiance than obedience. Damon’s mouth curved almost imperceptibly.

He sat across from her, stretching his long frame into the chair like he owned the air around him. “We leave in an hour.”

“Leave?” She froze with the fork halfway to her mouth. “Where exactly are we going?”

“The office.”

Her laugh was sharp, incredulous. “Your office? Damon, I don’t belong in a boardroom.”

“You don’t need to belong,” he said simply. “You just need to be seen.”

“Seen,” she echoed bitterly. “As what? The waitress you dragged into your empire? Your contract bride?”

His eyes flicked to her mouth for half a second before he leaned back. “As my wife.”

Her pulse skipped, though she kept her voice steady. “You can’t parade me in front of your people like I’m some prize.”

His smirk deepened, more dangerous than amused. “That’s exactly what I can do. And that’s exactly what I will do. They need to see you. They need to see us.”

Her fork clattered against the plate as she stood. “You don’t own me.”

Damon rose too, not quickly, not dramatically , just with that measured grace that reminded her he was always in control. He closed the space between them, his height forcing her chin up.

“Then stop letting me,” he said quietly, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel.

Something in her chest twisted. It felt like a challenge, one she wasn’t sure she could win.

“You’re an asshole,” she whispered.

His smile turned wicked, faint but infuriating. “Eat, Lena. We leave in an hour.”

He turned and walked out, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving her breathless and furious and, annoyingly, just a little shaken.

The Cross Tower was a monolith of glass and steel stretching into the New York skyline. The black car slid to a stop in front of it, and Lena had to tilt her head back just to take it all in.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with purpose. Men and women in sleek suits moved like currents of water, their conversations clipped, their eyes sharp. Heads turned when Damon walked through, and whispers followed like a tide.

“Head up,” he murmured, his palm brushing her lower back. The warmth of his hand burned through the silk of her blouse, steadying and unsettling her all at once. “Don’t let them see hesitation.”

Her spine stiffened. She hated that he was right.

The private elevator whisked them to the top floor. When the doors opened, Lena stepped into a different world, walls of glass framing the skyline, black floors gleaming, and silence so heavy it seemed designed to intimidate.

Damon led her into a massive boardroom. Conversations died the moment he entered.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Damon said evenly, his hand tightening at her back. “My wife, Lena Cross.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. Polite murmurs followed, congratulations, unexpected, fortunate but their eyes told a different story. Calculation. Doubt. Curiosity sharp enough to draw blood.

Damon guided her into the seat beside him at the head of the table. She sat stiffly, feeling the weight of a dozen gazes pinning her in place.

The meeting began. Numbers, deals, projections, a storm of language she barely understood. But what she understood perfectly was Damon.

He was ruthless here. Colder. Every question hurled at him, he dismantled with surgical precision. Every hesitation from his board, he crushed with calm authority. He didn’t shout, didn’t fumble. He didn’t need to. He sat like a king among subjects, and they all knew it.

Lena’s chest tightened as she watched him. This was Damon stripped of pretense. This was power honed into a blade. And somehow, she was tethered to it by a ring on her finger.

Halfway through, one of the older board members leaned forward, his voice silky. “And Mrs. Cross… what do you make of all this?”

The room turned to her in unison. Lena’s heart thudded painfully. She froze, every word she could think of fleeing her mind.

Her eyes darted to Damon. He didn’t intervene. He just watched her, gaze cool and unreadable, as if testing her.

Lena swallowed. “I think…” Her voice shook, but she steadied it. “I think it’s clear Damon knows what he’s doing. You wouldn’t all be sitting here if he didn’t.”

A ripple of restrained chuckles circled the table. The board member leaned back with a thin smile. “Well said.”

Beneath the table, Damon’s fingers brushed hers. Just a whisper of contact, deliberate. Approval. But his touch lingered a fraction too long, enough that she felt warmth pool in her stomach before he pulled away.

The meeting stretched on. Lena sat still, absorbing nothing of the figures and forecasts, but every time she caught Damon’s profile….sharp jaw, calm mouth, eyes that gave nothing away, her pulse jumped.

When it finally ended, Damon rose. “That will be all.”

The others gathered their papers, filing out with thin smiles and lingering glances at Lena. As the doors shut, she let out a shaky breath.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, standing. “Throwing me to the wolves like that?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “You handled it.”

“I’m not part of your empire, Damon. I don’t want to be.”

He stepped closer, his presence crowding the air. “You are, Lena. By name, by ring, by contract. My enemies see you now. That means you don’t get to falter.”

Her stomach turned. “Enemies?”

His gaze darkened, holding hers with a weight that made her skin prickle. “You heard me.”

For the first time, she believed him. This wasn’t just about business rivalries or gossip. There was something dangerous coiled beneath Damon’s empire, something she hadn’t signed up for but was now entangled in.

She shivered before she could stop herself. Damon’s eyes flicked to the movement. Without a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The gesture was smooth, almost absentminded, but the warmth of the fabric, the faint scent of his cologne, it rattled her more than all his threats.

Her throat tightened. “You don’t have to…”

“I take care of what’s mine,” he said simply.

And just like that, he turned away, gathering his folder, as if the intimacy of the moment hadn’t just undone her.

That night, Lena stood in front of the mirror in her room.

The woman staring back didn’t look like the one who had worked double shifts at Maggie’s Diner just a week ago. She wore silk, not polyester. Diamonds glinted at her ears, not cheap studs. Her makeup was flawless, her hair styled by hands that didn’t belong to her.

But her eyes… her eyes were still hers. Wide, uncertain, caught between fury and something far more dangerous.

She lifted her hand, staring at the band circling her finger. Damon’s ring. Damon’s name. Damon’s world.

She told herself it was a deal. Six months. Nothing more.

But when she closed her eyes, all she could feel was the his fingers brushing hers under the table, the weight of his jacket on her shoulders, the way his gaze had lingered for one heartbeat longer than necessary.

Lena pressed her palms flat against the dresser, breathing hard.

She hated him. God, she hated him.

So why did she feel like she was already slipping?