HIS WIFE, HIS REVENGE

The invitation

The Delacroix meeting actually went way better than Elena dared to hope.

Afterward, she stayed in the lobby for ten full minutes, replaying everything, half-disbelieving it had happened. The creative director had nodded, really looked at her mood boards, didn't just glance over at the men in the room for approval. Someone had asked her opinion about the stone for the lobby—like her voice mattered—without giving her room to defer to someone above her. Nobody talked about her father. Nobody had to. For once, she was Elena Vale, the designer. Not an extension of a legacy, just herself. It felt like breathing air that hadn’t already been claimed.

She clung to that feeling—a little shaky, honestly—when she stepped onto the sidewalk and spotted Damian Blackwood. He was just standing there near the curb, looking at his phone with the kind of patience that made it clear he wasn’t in a rush, as if waiting outside a building at eleven in the morning was something he did all the time.

She stopped about three feet away. “This is becoming a pattern.”

His eyes flicked up from his screen. “I was in the neighborhood.”

She couldn't help herself. “You’re never just in a neighborhood, Mr. Blackwood. You’re always exactly where you mean to be.”

There was something in his expression that almost—almost—looked like a smile. Not quite, but close enough she was beginning to tell the real thing from the polite mask. “Fair enough. I had a meeting nearby. It ended early.”

“So you spent the extra time loitering outside my client’s building?”

He shrugged. “I spent the extra time hoping I’d run into you.” He finally put his phone away, watching her a little longer. “How did it go?”

She hadn’t expected the question—or the genuine curiosity. It caught her off guard, and she answered honestly before she’d even decided if she wanted to. “Well. Actually, better than well. I think they're considering me for the ballroom redesign, not just the lobby.”

“That’s huge.”

“Yeah, it is.” She let herself sound proud for once. “It would be the biggest project EVA Studio’s ever landed. My name on it. Not my father’s reputation, not his connections—mine.”

He nodded, quietly approving. “You should be proud.”

She laughed, a little nervously. “I am. I’m allowed to be, you know, even in front of a man my father’s spent five years describing like you’re a hurricane.”

A shadow crossed his face at the comparison—controlled, but unmistakable, the same discomfort she’d seen whenever family history threatened to creep in.

“I don’t doubt you’re allowed,” he said, “I just wondered if you let yourself.”

He was right, annoyingly, and she didn’t have a response. The city just kept flowing past them: a bike courier swerved close, and Elena instinctively stepped nearer to Damian. He didn’t move away. Neither did she, not right away.

He broke the moment. “I have a proposal.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a loaded word, given our families.”

“Bad phrasing. Let’s try again.” He smiled—a real, small smile this time. “I’d like to have dinner with you. Not a charity function, not a drinks meeting with three other people. Just dinner. No audience.”

Elena felt the request land somewhere between curiosity and caution, suspicious but not hostile, wary of how easily she wanted to say yes. “You realize my father will object on principle—before he even asks why.”

“I imagine he would.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Less than the alternative.”

She blinked. “Which is?”

“Never figuring out why I keep thinking about our conversation in that coffee shop days after it ended.” He was direct, almost raw, none of the practiced charm she'd expect from him. “I’m not pretending I understand why I want to see you again, Ms. Vale. I have spent years being certain about everything where your family is concerned. You’re the first uncertainty I don’t want to solve right away.”

It should have sounded like a line. She knew that type well—words shaped to flatter, just high enough to get what someone wanted. But this wasn’t that. It was blunt, almost uncomfortable. Honest.

“One dinner,” she said, cautious but sure. “And if my father finds out and calls every lawyer he knows, that’s your mess, not mine.”

“I can live with that.”

“Thursday,” she blurted, before nerves could win out. “Not tonight. I need a few days to decide whether this is insane.”

“Thursday.” He agreed. For a second, the careful space between them softened into something genuine. Maybe not friendship—not yet—but it felt real enough to start. “I’ll have my assistant send you the details.”

“No car.”

He looked surprised. “Pardon?”

“If you send a car, you definitely know my address, which means you had it before I gave it to you, which means this whole thing plays out your way, not mine.” She held his gaze. “I’ll meet you there. Wherever ‘there’ is. On my own.”

He paused, recalibrating. “Understood. No car.”

“Good.”

She turned away, already rehearsing how to explain this to Sophia without getting scolded, when his voice stopped her, softer now.

“Elena.”

He’d never used her name without a title. It landed somewhere unexpected.

“For what it’s worth, I meant what I said at the coffee shop. If I learn the truth about what happened between our families, I’ll tell you. Dinner isn’t a dodge—it’s separate from that promise.”

She watched him, searching for calculation—something hidden beneath sincerity—but found nothing concrete. Not yet.

“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Blackwood.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Ms. Vale.”

This time, Elena walked away first, telling herself the lightness in h

er chest was just relief after Delacroix.

Honestly, she didn’t quite believe herself.