ENEMIES IN ARMANI

"What on earth have you done?!" Liana Cole froze mid-motion, the delicate porcelain teacup slipping from her fingers with a faint clatter onto the sleek mahogany table. Golden chamomile spilled like a slow-motion disaster, cascading down the front of Damian Blackwood’s custom Armani suit. Gasps ricocheted around the boardroom. Every silver-haired director and investment shark blinked at the unfolding scene like they’d just witnessed the fall of Wall Street itself. He didn't flinch, of course he didn’t. Damian Blackwood didn’t flinch at war, blood, or billion-dollar losses. But his obsidian eyes narrowed just enough to spark that familiar fury in Liana’s chest. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said with venomous politeness, snatching a cloth napkin from the table and tossing it in his direction without the slightest hint of apology. “Wouldn’t want your Italian cashmere getting… emotional.” A beat of silence followed—one that stung with disbelief and awe. He peeled the napkin from where it landed on his shoulder, his jaw tight. “You might want to focus more on controlling your temper than trying to control an empire.” And there it was- the reason she hated him. It hadn’t been the first time Damian Blackwood had questioned her capability, and it wouldn’t be the last. Not when he sat across from her in the same boardroom her father had ruled, making snide remarks with that maddening calm. She stood tall, her heels clicking like gunshots against the tile as she circled the table with all the grace of a lioness in couture. “I inherited Cole Enterprises, Mr. Blackwood. I didn’t marry into it. I was born for this.” “And yet,” he murmured, straightening his soaked collar without breaking eye contact, “you still spill tea like a debutante at her first luncheon.” Liana’s blood boiled. He was insufferable. All chiselled jaw, calculated restraint, and wealth that didn’t need announcing. Damian Blackwood was the kind of man who never had to raise his voice to dominate a room—his presence alone was a power play. But Liana wasn’t a pawn and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be intimidated by the man trying to sink his teeth into the legacy her family built. “I know what you’re doing,” she said, her voice soft but seething. “You think if you rattle me enough, I’ll give up control. But let me assure you, Damian—if it’s a war you want, I’ve already picked my weapon.” He smiled—infuriatingly slow, maddeningly calm. “Good, because I don’t fight women, i destroy opponents.” She leaned forward, her breath brushing dangerously close to his cheek. “Then prepare to lose.” The room remained frozen as the tension bled into the polished walls and high-rise windows, New York’s skyline blinking like it too was watching. The chairman finally cleared his throat. “Well. That was… spirited. Shall we begin the meeting?” But Liana and Damian weren’t listening anymore- not really. Because war had been declared and in New York’s ruthless world of billionaires, broken trust, and designer armor, enemies wore Armani. And sometimes, they kissed like sin. The meeting resumed—on the surface, at least. Reports were presented. Numbers were read off sleek tablets. Projections flashed across the massive screen at the head of the table, glowing softly against the chrome and glass of the Cole & Blackwood boardroom. But no one was really watching the screen. Not when Liana Cole and Damian Blackwood sat across from each other like opposing monarchs at a war council, each pretending to listen while plotting their next strike. Liana folded her hands neatly in her lap, her expression the picture of professional serenity. Inside, she was still burning. Damian had humiliated her—again. Not with shouting or insults, but with that insufferable tone, that knife-sharp calm that made her feel like a child pretending to play with the grown-ups. As if she hadn’t been raised in this world, hadn’t studied at Wharton, hadn’t bled for the company that bore her father’s name. She could still feel the heat of his breath near her cheek. That smirk, that line—I don’t fight women, i destroy opponents. God, she wanted to break something. He turned his head slightly, catching her eye across the table like he could hear her thoughts. He gave her a lazy, knowing smile. Arrogant bastard. She shifted in her chair, mentally filing away the look for the day she'd wipe that smile off his face in front of everyone. Preferably with a well-placed clause in a contract that left him gasping for breath. "—and we believe the Milan acquisition can be closed within the next quarter," one of the senior advisors was saying, tapping his screen. Liana blinked back into the conversation. She leaned forward, voice crisp. “That depends. Has anyone actually reviewed the compliance issues in their financial disclosures? Or are we just pretending six flags aren't waving in our faces?” Damian didn’t even look up from his phone. “We’ve reviewed it thoroughly. Your paranoia is noted.” “Paranoia is what kept this company solvent during your last ‘thorough’ decision,” she shot back without missing a beat. A few nervous chuckles rose. The chairman cleared his throat again—he was going to develop a condition if he kept sitting between the two of them. The rest of the meeting passed in thinly veiled jabs and icy silences. By the end, Liana was practically vibrating. As the executives began shuffling papers and rising from their chairs, murmuring goodbyes, she stood and smoothed down her blazer with practiced ease. She could feel Damian’s presence beside her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. He moved in close, voice low. “You always go for the dramatic exit, don’t you?” She didn’t even glance at him. “Only when it leaves a stain.” Then she walked out—head high, heart racing, heels clicking with purpose across the marble floors of the sixty-seventh story of Cole Tower. But as the doors to the elevator slid shut, she saw him in the reflection—Damian Blackwood, arms crossed, head tilted, watching her with the same infuriating calm that had set her blood boiling from the moment they met. Like he knew something she didn’t. Like he always knew something she didn’t. The elevator doors sealed, and the mirrored image vanished. Liana let out a slow, calculated breath and pressed the button for the top executive floor—her floor. Her sanctuary. The only place left in this building that didn’t feel like a battlefield. The moment she stepped into her office—floor-to-ceiling windows, curated art, power in every inch of leather and marble her assistant, Marcy, appeared at the door, clutching a tablet and looking vaguely apologetic. “Don’t say it,” Liana said, walking straight to the bar cart and pouring herself a neat glass of sparkling water. “I... kind of have to,” Marcy replied carefully. “There’s a press dinner tonight. You and Mr. Blackwood are both expected to attend- together.” Liana turned slowly, ice cubes clinking as she took a long sip. “Is that a joke?” Marcy offered a helpless shrug. “Apparently it was your father’s idea. ‘Public unity builds market trust.’ His words.” Liana nearly spat out the drink. Public unity? With Damian Blackwood? After this morning? Her father had lost his mind. She paced to her desk, heels striking against the floors like warning bells. “Fine. If the old man wants unity, he’ll get it. But Damian’s not walking in there thinking I’m playing nice.” “No,” Marcy muttered under her breath, “he’ll probably walk in thinking you’ve poisoned the champagne.” Liana didn’t smile. But the thought did bring her a little comfort. 7:03 PM The Lexington Grand Ballroom – Manhattan If elegance had a scent, it was white orchids, vintage champagne, and tailored revenge. The Cole & Blackwood press dinner was already buzzing when Liana arrived—draped in crimson silk, her hair in a flawless chignon, heels sharp enough to kill. Cameras flashed, microphones hovered, and every eye tracked her entrance like a meteor just hit Midtown. She posed for a few shots—cool, composed, lethal. Then he arrived-Damian Blackwood, in a midnight-black Armani tux, crisp shirt, no tie. Always effortless, always just a little undone, like he couldn’t be bothered to care and still walked away owning the room. He approached with a drink in hand and that same unreadable smirk that made her want to throw it in his face again—only this time, the press would be watching. “Try not to spill anything tonight,” he murmured as he stepped beside her, offering a champagne flute with mock chivalry. She took it without looking at him. “Try not to condescend in public. Oh wait—you can’t help yourself.” They smiled for the cameras. They stood close enough to look united, distant enough to still draw speculation. And to the press? They were a vision of powerful harmony. Inside? They were circling each other like wolves in silk and steel. “What are you playing at, Damian?” she whispered between flashes. He leaned in, breath warm against her ear. “You started this war, Liana. I’m just enjoying the battlefield.” She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Because the cameras were still snapping and the eyes of New York’s elite were on them—and somewhere between the tension, the performance, and the slow-burn hatred curling between them like smoke… Liana Cole realized she wasn’t entirely sure who would win this war. But she’d be damned if it wasn’t her.