Rhea didn't want to go.
She had made it clear when the invitation first arrived on her desk, gold-trimmed and obnoxiously formal. It wasn’t even addressed directly to her—it came with a note from Damian, scribbled in the corner in his confident, rushed handwriting: You're coming. No arguments.
It didn’t matter that she had tried to argue. Catherine had already set up her fitting. The stylist had already been briefed. By the time the evening came, she found herself in a car she didn’t request, wearing a gown she hadn’t chosen, beside a man she was supposed to destroy.
Damian hadn’t said much when he picked her up. He had simply opened the door, eyes roaming over her once, slowly, like he was trying to memorize her. He didn’t comment on the silver dress clinging to her figure, or the way
