Chapter 3
1164 Words
Lyra’s POV
There are exactly four things I expected from my first day as Damien Virelli’s “secretary”:
1. Bored paperwork
2. Mild s****l tension
3. A coffee machine I don’t know how to use
4. Not leaving the mansion
What I didn’t expect was standing in a private dressing room with a stylist poking at my ribs while holding up a sequined backless gown that costs more than my soul.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask, eyeing the slit that goes way past modest.
Damien—leaning against the wall in a navy suit and pure audacity—doesn’t look up from his phone.
“It’s a charity gala,” he says. “You’ll be accompanying me.”
“Correction. I’m your secretary. Not your date.”
“Same difference in public.”
I scoff. “Oh, is that in the job description too? ‘Bring heels, sass, and moral flexibility’?”
He glances at me then. Brief. Calculated.
“No. But you wear all three well.”
My stylist snorts. I glare at her. She coughs to hide the laugh.
This day is already spiraling.
---
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of the mirror, gown zipped, heels on, spine straight.
I should feel like a queen.
Instead, I feel like bait.
Damien doesn’t say a word when he sees me. He just looks.
And keeps looking.
His eyes travel slowly—from my throat to my waist to the curve of my leg—and it takes every ounce of willpower not to squirm.
Say something. Anything.
But he only nods and says, “We leave in ten.”
Jerk.
---
The car ride is silent, except for the sound of my nerves screaming.
“You didn’t tell me what this gala is for,” I say, pretending to admire the skyline.
He answers without turning. “It’s in support of a foundation that rescues women from trafficking networks.”
My throat closes.
“That’s… ironic.”
“Is it?”
I look at him. Really look at him.
There’s no smirk. No sarcasm.
Just a man with a past I haven’t cracked yet.
I turn away.
And try not to think about my sister.
---
The gala is what I expected: chandeliers, whispers, champagne that tastes like regret.
People flock to Damien like moths to a dangerous flame. They greet him with the kind of fake affection reserved for people with terrifying bank accounts and darker secrets.
But when I walk in beside him, heels clicking, shoulders bare—they look at me like I don’t belong.
Good.
Let them wonder.
Let them whisper.
Let them ask who the hell I am.
Damien places a hand on my lower back, light but possessive.
“This crowd is full of liars,” he murmurs beside my ear.
“Perfect,” I murmur back. “I blend right in.”
---
Damien’s POV
She doesn’t realize what she does to a room.
Lyra Santiaga walks like she owns nothing and dares anyone to mention it. Her sarcasm is armor. Her attitude, a weapon.
And yet tonight—wrapped in silk and lit by chandelier glow—she looks like everything I shouldn’t touch.
Which, of course, makes me want to touch her more.
I watch men glance at her. Then glance at me.
Some with recognition.
Some with warning.
She notices. I see her spine straighten.
I lean close.
“Smile.”
She glares. “Say please.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
---
Halfway through the evening, a man approaches.
Tall. Handsome. Politician type. The kind who smells like fake promises and overpriced cologne.
“Damien,” he says with a glass-lifted greeting. “And… guest?”
I don’t like his tone.
Before I can answer, Lyra does.
“I’m the secretary,” she says sweetly. “But I also bite. Just FYI.”
The man laughs, surprised.
Damien Virelli’s plus-one with teeth? How scandalous.
He excuses himself soon after.
I glance at Lyra. “You’re making friends.”
“I’m being myself.”
“That’s the problem.”
She shrugs, sipping champagne like she isn’t provoking me on purpose.
---
Later, when she steps outside onto the balcony, I follow.
The night air is cooler. Quieter.
I lean beside her on the railing.
“Why are you here, really?” she asks.
I look at the skyline.
Then at her.
“Because I need someone who doesn’t lie to my face.”
She laughs—bitter and amused.
“You think I’m honest?”
“I think you’re angry enough to say things others won’t.”
“And what if I turn that anger on you?”
I lean closer, voice lower.
“Then at least I’ll know where I stand.”
---
Lyra’s POV
He gets too close.
Again.
This man has no sense of boundaries. Or maybe he does, and breaking them is part of his routine.
“Do all your employees dress up and play pretty for the cameras?” I ask.
“Only the dangerous ones,” he says.
“That’s weirdly flattering.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
God, he’s infuriating.
And still…
Still, when he looks at me like that—like he’s imagining tearing away more than just the gown—I feel my breath hitch.
Damn it.
Focus, Lyra.
I take a step back. “We done with this circus yet?”
“Yes,” he says, offering his arm. “Time to go home.”
Home.
I almost laugh.
But I take his arm anyway.
And try not to enjoy it too much.
---
Damien’s POV
Back at the house, she disappears to her room without a word.
I let her.
Because if I follow her now…
I won’t stop at conversation.
Instead, I go to my office. I open the file.
Not hers.
Her sister’s.
The real file. Not the one I left for Lyra to find.
Inside are photos. Reports. Recordings.
Everything.
The choices she made.
The men she trusted.
The last one she feared.
Me.
I stare at the final page.
One phrase is underlined in red ink.
> “If she ever finds out, she’ll never forgive him.”
I close the file.
And pour another drink.
Because I know something Lyra doesn’t.
Her sister is still alive.
But the truth might be worse than death.
---
Lyra’s POV
I sit on my bed, staring at my reflection.
Tonight was… strange.
Powerful. Confusing. Dangerous.
He makes me feel like I’m playing with fire.
And I like it.
Too much.
Which is exactly why I need to remember why I came here.
I pull out the black folder again.
Stare at my sister’s face.
Her smile.
The man behind her.
Damien.
No matter what games we play…
No matter how close we get…
I can’t forget what he might have done.
And I won’t forgive him…
Until I know the truth.
---
- Writer
