The ballroom of the Grand Blackstone was a crystal-lit dream, but to me, it felt like an arena. Five hundred guests were laughing, drinking champagne, and celebrating a love story that had started as a cold-blooded transaction.
Damian’s hand was a permanent fixture on the small of my back, his touch burning through the thin lace of my wedding dress. To the guests, it looked like a groom who couldn't keep his hands off his bride. To me, it felt like he was holding me together, afraid I might shatter under the intense gaze of the man sitting at Table One.
Mr. Sterling.
The Black family lawyer was nearly eighty, with eyes as sharp as glass shards. He hadn't touched his food. He was simply watching us, his spectacles glinting under the chandeliers.
"Smile, Elena," Damian whispered, leaning
