ENEMIES IN ARMANI

Playing with fire

As the auction moved on, Liana tried to focus on the next items, but she could feel him. Every time she glanced away, she knew he was still looking, a steady pull at the edge of her awareness.

When the final gavel fell and champagne flutes began circulating again, she made the decision to leave early. The last thing she wanted was to be cornered in front of an audience.

She didn’t make it to the exit.

Damian intercepted her by the grand staircase, his tux jacket now on, tie still missing. That infuriating combination of polished and reckless.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly. “You just paid two hundred thousand dollars for a dinner you’re never going to have.”

His mouth curved, slow and sure. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“I don’t dine with enemies.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear over the string quartet. “I didn’t bid for a dinner. I bid for three hours of your time… with no board, no press, no interruptions.”

Her breath caught and she hated that it did.

“Not happening,” she said, forcing her tone back to steel.

Damian leaned in, just enough for her perfume to mingle with his cologne. “Oh, it will. Because if you don’t give me that dinner, I’ll simply donate another half-million to your mother's foundation with the stipulation that you attend my thank you event.... as my date

"You wouldn't dare" her heart skipped

" you still don't know me well, I always collect what I pay for" before she could respond he brushed her aside and she stood there frozen.

Liana didn’t wait until morning.

By the time she was back in her penthouse, shoes kicked off and hair twisted into a knot, she was already drafting an email.

If Damian Blackwood thought he could corner her into dinner on his terms, he was in for a surprise.

She typed each word with deliberate precision:

Mr. Blackwood,

Regarding the charity auction dinner, I’m willing to honor the arrangement. My schedule allows next Thursday, 7:30 PM. The location will be Le Jardin Privé. A private room has already been arranged.

Regards,

Liana Cole

Le Jardin Privé was one of Manhattan’s most exclusive restaurants, her territory. The chef knew her by name, the sommelier knew her preferences, and the staff would never, ever let Damian have the upper hand.

She hit send and she smiled.

The reply came three hours later.

Miss Cole,

Thursday works perfectly. However, Le Jardin Privé won’t do. I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a more… fitting venue. My driver will collect you at 7 PM sharp.

Wear something you can move in.

D.B.

Her eyes narrowed. “Something you can move in”? What was that supposed to mean?

Thursday evening arrived with the kind of crisp spring air that made Manhattan shimmer. At exactly 7:00, a sleek black car pulled up in front of her building.

Liana stepped inside, every detail of her outfit chosen to broadcast control—fitted ivory silk blouse, tailored navy trousers, heels sharp enough to draw blood.

She expected the ride to take her toward the Upper East Side.

Instead, the car crossed into Tribeca… then down toward the waterfront.

“What is this?” she asked the driver.

“You’ll see, Miss Cole.”

The car stopped in front of a building she didn’t recognize—industrial brick, tall black steel doors, the kind of place that didn’t exactly scream fine dining.

Damian was waiting just inside, all in black this time—black shirt, black slacks, no tie. His smile was dangerous.

“Welcome,” he said. “Tonight’s venue is mine.”

She looked past him. The space was a converted loft, lit by hundreds of tiny candles and warmed by the scent of fresh herbs. In the center, a long polished wood table set for two… and an open kitchen where a private chef was already at work.

“This isn’t dinner in public,” he said, watching her reaction. “No interruptions, no audience. Just you and me.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, stepping inside despite herself.

He leaned in just enough for his voice to curl at her ear. “And yet… here you are.”

The clink of crystal stemware echoed faintly in the candlelit loft as Damian poured the wine himself—no sommelier, no staff to mediate. Just his hands, precise and deliberate, turning even the act of pouring into a performance.

Liana took her seat, refusing to break eye contact. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble for a dinner you could’ve had in any Michelin-starred restaurant.”

“That’s the point,” Damian said, setting the bottle down. “Restaurants are predictable, controlled. You thrive on control, Liana. I wanted… something different.”

Her lips curved, though the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Different for you means removing every advantage I have.”

He tilted his head, as if amused. “Or maybe it means putting us on equal ground for once.”

“Equal?” She let out a quiet laugh. “You’ve done nothing but throw your weight around since the moment we met. If you were interested in equal ground, you wouldn’t have hijacked my event.”

“I didn’t hijack it. I… enhanced it.” His voice carried that maddening, quiet confidence that made people believe him against their better judgment.

The chef set the first course in front of them—seared scallops over saffron risotto. The aroma curled into the air, but neither of them reached for a fork.

Instead, Liana leaned forward, her tone cool. “Tell me, Damian—what do you really want out of this? Because it’s clearly not about charity.”

He studied her for a long moment, fingers resting lightly on the stem of his glass. “What I want…” His gaze slid over her in a slow, deliberate sweep. “…is to see what you’re like when you stop playing to the crowd.”

Her pulse flickered, but she kept her face neutral. “You’re going to be disappointed.”

“Somehow,” he said, swirling the wine, “I doubt that.”

For the rest of the course, conversation circled like a chess game—questions answered with questions, statements laced with bait neither of them quite took. Every brush of his gaze felt intentional; every sip of her wine was measured to mask the way her heartbeat had started keeping pace with his voice.

By the time the second course arrived, she realized something dangerous:

This wasn’t about food, this was about who would blink first.

And if she wasn’t careful, Damian Blackwood would get his answer tonight.

The second course disappeared as if neither of them had noticed eating it—roasted duck with black cherry reduction, paired with a velvety red that left her lips stained like a secret.

The conversation never softened, but somewhere between the sparring and the silences, she became aware of how intimate the space felt. No clatter of other diners, no hum of a city just outside—just the warm flicker of candlelight catching on glass and the occasional low murmur of the chef.

When the final plate was cleared, Liana pushed back her chair. “Well, i suppose you can congratulate yourself—an evening without theatrics.”

Damian stood as well, rounding the table, hands in his pockets like a man who wasn’t finished. “No theatrics? You wound me.”

She reached for her clutch. “I’m serious, for a man who’s used to getting headlines, you almost behaved like a civilized human being.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. “And here I was,” he said softly, “thinking tonight was the most honest we’ve been with each other.”

Her throat tightened. “You don’t know me, Blackwood.”

“That,” he murmured, “is the part I intend to change.”

Before she could form a reply, he reached past her—not touching—just close enough that her breath caught, and slipped something into her clutch.

She glanced down, a slim black envelope.

“What is this?”

His smile was faint, unreadable. “Your next move. You can open it now… or later. Either way, you’ll show up.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” she said, though her fingers curled around the envelope like they had a will of their own.

He stepped back, giving her a clear path to the door. “You will because you’re just as curious as I am, Liana.”

She left without answering, the envelope- a weight in her bag all the way home.

And when she finally opened it, she realized Damian Blackwood hadn’t just bought a dinner.

He’d bought the first step into her life.

Inside was a single line, written in his sharp, deliberate hand:

Saturday, midnight, don’t wear heels.