The Art Of Leverage
1724 Words
Chapter Seven
One lie breeds a hundred. But sometimes, the biggest bluff… is the truth you refuse to say.
The invitation arrived in an envelope so heavy it could’ve passed for a weapon.
Thick, embossed, and sealed with gold foil, it was the kind of letter that screamed old money and whispered ulterior motives.
Selene found it lying on the marble counter in the foyer, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Damien Moreau.
It was the first time she’d seen her name printed alongside his in something that wasn’t a contract.
Her pulse flicked nervously.
Damien entered behind her, eyes flicking to the envelope. His expression darkened instantly.
“You’re not going,” he said flatly.
She turned. “It’s from Nicholas Deveraux.”
“I know who it’s from.”
“Then you also know ignoring it would be louder than attending.”
He stepped past her, poured himself a drink with the ease of a man trying to contain frustration. The crystal decanter clinked. “Deveraux is a vulture. He throws parties to smell blood.”
“Then he must sense yours.”
That earned her a sharp look. But she didn’t flinch.
“This is the game, isn’t it?” she continued. “Your world, Damien. High society sharks smile while they size each other up. If you want to keep control of the narrative, we go.”
“No.”
She walked to him, took the glass from his hand, and set it aside. “Then let me go.”
Silence.
Selene met his gaze steadily. “You want Vivienne to think I’m just your pretty liability. Let her. But if I’m in the room, I can control the rumors. I can plant new ones. Shift the spotlight before it reaches what you’re hiding.”
He studied her face like it was a language he was just now learning.
“You’re playing a dangerous hand,” he murmured.
Selene smiled. “So are you.”
The Deveraux Gala was held in a chateau outside the city, a place that looked like Versailles had married a mafia estate and had a baby.
Selene stepped out of the car in a backless black gown that moved like oil and shadows. Her hair was swept up, exposing her neck and shoulders. A crimson lip stained her mouth like blood on porcelain.
She was a painting of elegance.
And power.
Damien appeared beside her in a sharp, tailored suit. Under the floodlights, they looked like a power couple made of secrets and silence.
Inside, the ballroom dripped with opulence: gold-trimmed everything, crystal chandeliers, a quartet playing something too soft to soothe.
Eyes turned toward them immediately.
Selene felt it—the way whispers clung to the edge of their steps. That’s the wife. She’s new. She’s too young for him. Did he marry again?
Vivienne Harrow stood near the gallery wall in a wine-colored gown, her smile slicing through the crowd like a scalpel.
When she saw Selene, her eyes narrowed with elegant malice.
“Showtime,” Selene murmured.
Damien leaned close, brushing his lips near her ear in a way that might look intimate to onlookers but felt more like strategy.
“Don’t talk to her,” he murmured.
Selene’s eyes remained on Vivienne across the ballroom. “I don’t have to. She’ll come to me.”
And sure enough, like a scent of blood in water, Vivienne began her slow, deliberate approach. She greeted people along the way—small laughs, delicate handshakes—but her trajectory never wavered.
Selene took a flute of champagne from a passing server and sipped it calmly.
Vivienne reached them moments later, eyes glinting like a polished blade.
“Selene,” she said first, her voice velvet wrapped around something serrated. “You look… ambitious.”
Selene smiled. “And you look just like regret disguised in silk.”
Damien tensed beside her.
Vivienne laughed, touching her throat. “Charming. I suppose he married you for your wit.”
Selene didn’t blink. “I suppose he didn’t marry you for yours.”
The tension between the three of them thickened, but Selene didn’t flinch. She let her expression stay polite, her posture effortless. This was the first real test, and she had no intention of losing it.
Vivienne turned her attention to Damien. “You always did like women who played chess instead of checkers.”
“I like women who know how to win,” Damien said simply.
Selene’s pulse jumped.
Vivienne gave them both a once-over, then leaned in just slightly. “Enjoy the party, Mrs. Moreau. Let’s hope it’s not your last.”
She walked off without waiting for a reply.
Selene let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Damien took her elbow gently, guiding her toward the terrace. “You handled her well.”
“I wasn’t trying to impress you,” she said, her voice still even. “I was protecting your secrets.”
He turned to her beneath the soft glow of the terrace lights. “You did more than that.”
Their eyes locked.
Something passed between them then—not warmth exactly, but heat. Tension that had once been sharp with resentment was now edged with something else: awareness. Interest.
Selene dropped her gaze first, turning away to look out at the manicured gardens beyond.
“I need to know more, Damien,” she said. “Vivienne came here tonight for a reason.”
“She always does.”
“She wants something.”
“She wants leverage,” he said. “But so do we.”
Later That Night
Back home, the air between them still sizzled from the gala.
Selene stood barefoot in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. Damien entered moments later, his tie gone, shirt undone at the throat, jacket slung over his arm.
“You should’ve told me how dangerous she is,” Selene said without turning.
“She’s not dangerous,” Damien replied, voice low. “She’s desperate. And desperate people are predictable.”
Selene turned now, facing him.
“Then predict her,” Selene challenged, her voice soft but laced with steel. “Because if I’m supposed to survive this marriage—if we’re supposed to win—then I need to know what kind of war I’ve walked into.”
Damien’s gaze locked with hers. He moved closer, each step deliberate, until the space between them buzzed with heat and unanswered questions.
“You didn’t walk into a war,” he murmured. “You signed a contract that dropped you in the middle of one.”
He was close now. Too close. Selene could see the tension in his jaw, the storm behind his eyes—the man who held an empire on a string and knew it could snap at any moment.
“So teach me how to fight,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Damien’s eyes darkened.
“For someone who claims she wants no part of this life,” he said, stepping in until her back met the cold marble of the kitchen counter, “you’re asking for blood.”
“I’m asking to survive.”
He studied her for a moment that stretched too long. Then, his hand came up—fingertips brushing the line of her jaw in an almost tender touch.
“You’re learning faster than I expected.”
“And you’re underestimating me slower than I hoped.”
That brought the faintest flicker of amusement to his mouth. A shadow of a smile that never quite made it.
He leaned in closer.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll meet a man named Ezra Vale. He’s the cleaner of this world—he launders reputations, disposes of inconvenient truths, and he’ll be watching you.”
“Why?”
“Because Vivienne’s not the only one testing you.”
Selene felt her spine straighten. “What do I have to do?”
“Convince him I didn’t marry a liability.”
The Next Day
The Moreau estate’s study was colder than usual, despite the spring sun pouring through the windows.
Selene waited near the bookshelves, dressed in a pale silk blouse and tailored slacks—professional, sleek, and not to be underestimated.
The door opened with a quiet creak.
Ezra Vale stepped inside.
He was tall, wiry, with silver-streaked hair and a gaze like cut glass. Everything about him screamed discretion and discipline. He wore an obsidian-black suit, no tie, and gloves—gloves, even indoors. His very presence made the air feel filtered, watched, and dangerous.
Selene extended a hand. “Mrs. Moreau.”
“I know who you are,” Ezra said, not taking her hand. His voice was smooth, unassuming, and chilling.
She lowered it without blinking.
“I came to see if you’re a pawn,” he said. “Or if Damien’s made a queen.”
Selene tilted her head. “That depends. Are you playing chess… or poker?”
Ezra’s lip curled. “Interesting.”
He paced slowly, eyes scanning her like an X-ray machine. “I’ve buried things for Damien that would make a priest’s skin crawl. But this? You?” He gestured vaguely. “This is new.”
“You think I’m a mistake.”
“I think you’re a variable. And variables, Mrs. Moreau, are dangerous.”
She met his gaze without fear.
“I’m not here to ruin Damien’s empire. I’m here to learn how to keep it from crumbling on top of me.”
Ezra paused. His eyes flicked to the doorway behind her, where Damien now stood, silent.
“She’s not afraid,” Ezra said, almost to himself.
“She’s not stupid either,” Damien replied.
Ezra nodded slowly. “Then we may yet have a fighting chance.”
Selene returned to her room that night with too many thoughts and not enough answers.
She undid her hair, letting the pins fall like tiny weapons to the floor. In the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her.
She looked… prepared.
Changed.
Damien appeared in the doorway, watching her.
“No regrets?” he asked quietly.
Selene turned to him.
“Only that I didn’t start playing sooner.”
His smile was faint but real this time.
And that scared her more than anything.
- Writer
