To Love a Voss

Chapter 2

The invitation only said Winter Charity Gala. No venue. No host.

Miranda didn’t bother to tell me, and I didn’t care enough to ask — not until the car slowed to a stop and I looked up from the window.

My chest locks tight.

The Harrington Grand.

My family’s name is still carved into the stone arch in sweeping gold letters, glowing under the soft wash of the streetlights like it still means something.

Once, this building was ours — a monument to the Harrington legacy, the crown jewel of my father’s empire.

He used to walk me through the lobby like a king showing his daughter her inheritance.

Now it belongs to someone else.

And tonight… I’m walking into it as an outsider.

I thought I’d never set foot here again.

The black sedan rolls up the curved driveway, and my reflection flashes in the tinted windows of parked luxury cars.

I imagine the people inside — champagne in hand, perfect smiles, their lives untouched by ruin.

I remember my father on this very drive, leaning into my mother’s ear, making her laugh as cameras flashed.

The memory is so sharp I have to look away.

The lobby glitters like it’s trying too hard.

Gold‑trimmed columns stretch toward the ceiling. A chandelier, heavy enough to crush a person, drips with light above the marble floor. Men in tailored suits — the kind that cost more than my rent — stand in loose circles, sipping champagne and exchanging names that could make or break someone’s career.

I don’t make it three steps before I hear it — my name, stretched like taffy.

“Dawn?”

I turn, and there she is. Clarissa Morton. We were once in the same charity committee. She used to beg me for front‑row seats at our fashion shows.

Her eyes flick over my dress — pretty, but not designer — then to the simple clutch in my hand.

“Oh. You’re… here,” she says, with a smile so sharp it could slice silk.

“Working,” I say before she can ask. “For Prestige PR.”

Her brows lift, the interest fading instantly, and she’s already turning to whisper in her companion’s ear before I finish my sentence.

As I move away from Clarissa, something prickles at the back of my neck.

It’s not the stares — I’m used to those, the quick once‑overs, the quiet assessments. This is different.

This one lingers.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the crowd.

A flash of movement — a tall figure near the balcony railing, head bent as if in quiet conversation. His face is shadowed, but I swear… he’s looking right at me.

The moment my gaze meets his, he turns away.

A waiter cuts between us, and when I look again, the balcony is empty.

I tell myself I imagined it.

I smooth the strap of my black dress and keep my chin high, forcing my spine straight as I prepare myself, finally ready to go in. My heels click a crisp rhythm on the marble, a sound I try to sync my breathing to.

The air hums with conversations I don’t belong in — murmurs of mergers, market shares, political favours traded like cocktail napkins. Waiters glide past with trays of champagne flutes and oysters, their white‑gloved hands as practised as stage actors.

As I approached the ballroom doors, a man in a navy suit brushed past, murmuring just loudly enough for me to hear:

“Careful who you talk to tonight.”

I freeze, turning to catch his face — but he’s gone, swallowed into the crowd like he never existed.

A shiver trails down my spine.

The ballroom doors open with a low, dramatic swing, and warm light spills over me like stage lighting.

Every head seems to turn, but I know it’s not for me. These people are scanning, always scanning — for faces worth knowing, worth using.

The sound of a live string quartet swells from the corner, the notes delicate but tight, like they’re afraid to miss a beat.

I take a flute of champagne from a passing tray just to have something to do with my hands. The glass is cold and damp against my skin, the bubbles rising too quickly — like my pulse.

I’m halfway across the marble when I feel it —

a weight.

Not a touch. Not even a sound.

A gaze.

It pins me in place, steady and unflinching.

I turn my head.

And I see him.

Damien Voss.

Even across the room, he radiates something sharper than authority. Not the polished, market‑tested kind meant to impress a boardroom. This is heavier. Darker. The kind of power that isn’t given — it’s taken.

He’s all clean, brutal lines — broad shoulders beneath a black suit that looks like it was cut to his frame alone, the fabric moving with him instead of against him. Hands loose at his sides, like they’re just as comfortable sealing deals as they are breaking someone’s face.

And his eyes — pale grey, cool and unreadable — are locked on me like he’s known my face for years.

I should look away.

I can’t.

He moves.

Each step is measured, deliberate, the crowd bending unconsciously around him. People greet him, but he barely glances at them. His focus never wavers.

My throat tightens. My pulse beats hard enough that I almost miss his voice when he stops in front of me.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The words land between us like a dropped blade.

“I’m—sorry?” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like.

His gaze sweeps from my face to the champagne in my hand, then back.

“This isn’t your kind of crowd,” he says, his tone low, almost flat. “And it’s not safe for you here.”

I let out a laugh I don’t feel. Because what else do you do when a stranger — a stranger like this — tells you you’re in danger at a black‑tie gala?

“Do you… Say that to all the women you meet?”

One corner of his mouth lifts — but there’s no humour in it.

“No.”

He takes a step closer. The air between us changes, carrying the scent of something dark and clean, threaded with heat.

“Just the ones who are about to make a very bad mistake.”

The chandelier’s light grazes the hard cut of his jaw as he leans in, his voice dropping low enough that it belongs only to me.

“Stay away from my brother.”

Before I can ask what that even means, he’s gone — swallowed by the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits as if he’d never been there at all.

For a long moment after he disappears, I can’t move.

The crowd around me is still laughing, still toasting, still spinning under the chandelier’s glow… but the air feels different.

Colder.

My gaze sweeps the room, searching for him, but Damien Voss is gone — as if he never existed.

I press the champagne flute to my lips just to hide the way they’ve gone dry.

That’s when I feel it again — another gaze, this one warmer, almost… amused.

It slides over me like it’s trying to read my mind.

And then the voice comes, smooth and low, curling at the edges with charm:

“I see you’ve met Damien.”