Auctioned Heart

Chapter 3 – The Billionaire’s Trap

His words lingered in the air, heavier than the velvet curtains and the marble walls surrounding us.

“Because you looked like you didn’t belong.”

My pulse thundered in my ears. Careful, Amara. Careful.

If he suspected why I was here, my entire mission was already ruined. Months of digging, of tracing whispers and broken lives back to Damian Blackwood, would collapse before I’d written a single word.

I forced a steady breath and raised my chin. “You have a strange way of complimenting women, Mr. Blackwood.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not amusement, exactly. Interest. He leaned one broad shoulder against the wall as if he had all the time in the world.

“Most women,” he said smoothly, “would be flattered to have my attention.”

I swallowed. He wasn’t wrong. The weight of him was overwhelming, his presence like gravity itself—inescapable. I had to remind myself this wasn’t a date, wasn’t attraction. This was war.

“Then maybe I’m not like most women,” I shot back, hoping the sharpness in my voice covered the tremor in my body.

His lips curved, slow and dangerous. “That,” he murmured, “is exactly what makes you interesting.”

The air between us thickened. My instincts screamed to push him away, to put distance between us, but my traitorous body stayed pressed against the wall. Every breath pulled in his scent—smoke, spice, and something undeniably male.

I had to shift the conversation. Distract him. Control the narrative before he unraveled me.

“So what happens now?” I asked, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Do I get paraded around like some prize you won?”

For the first time, his eyes hardened. “Is that what you think of yourself?”

His tone cut sharper than I expected. I blinked, momentarily thrown. “I—No. That’s not—”

“Because if that’s the role you intend to play,” he said, pushing off the wall and stepping closer again, “you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

The wall behind me felt colder as he closed the distance, his presence wrapping around me like a cage.

“I don’t parade,” he continued, voice low. “And I don’t collect prizes.”

“Then what do you want?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He studied me for a long moment, his gaze burning into mine. Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression shifted. The ruthless mask slipped just enough to reveal something rawer, sharper.

“I want the truth.”

My breath caught.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Did he already know? Could he see through the forged invitation, the borrowed gown, the carefully rehearsed lies?

Before I could speak, a discreet cough broke the tension.

A waiter appeared at the end of the corridor, silver tray in hand, eyes lowered. “Mr. Blackwood. Your suite is prepared.”

Damian didn’t look away from me. His gaze stayed locked on mine, a silent challenge, even as he replied. “We’ll be there shortly.”

The waiter nodded and vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

I exhaled, my lungs finally remembering their purpose. “Suite?” I asked, the word barely more than a whisper.

Damian’s lips curved again, this time with unmistakable intent. “Relax, Miss Cole. It’s only a lounge. For now.”

My stomach flipped. For now.

He extended his hand, palm open, waiting. The gesture was polite, practiced. But beneath it, I sensed the command. Refuse him, and it would draw more attention than I could afford.

I hesitated, then placed my hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, swallowing mine whole. A shiver ran up my arm.

Without a word, he led me down the corridor, past guarded doors and curious glances from staff who instantly looked away. His stride was long and unhurried, forcing me to match his pace or stumble.

The door to the lounge opened silently at his approach. Inside, the world transformed.

Gone was the glittering chaos of the ballroom. This space was muted luxury—dark wood paneling, a roaring fireplace, leather chairs that gleamed under golden light. A bottle of champagne waited on ice, two crystal flutes beside it, as if someone had predicted this moment.

He guided me inside, the door clicking shut behind us with a finality that sent a chill racing down my spine.

Alone.

I pulled my hand back quickly and crossed my arms, desperate for a shield. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

He moved to the bar, pouring champagne into both glasses with unhurried grace. “Time is the one thing money can’t buy back. I don’t waste it.”

He handed me a glass. His fingers brushed mine—intentionally, I was certain—and lingered a second too long.

I took a sip, mostly to avoid speaking. The champagne fizzed against my tongue, cool and sharp, but it did nothing to settle my racing pulse.

He studied me as he drank, his gaze never wavering. It was unnerving, like being dissected under a microscope.

Finally, he spoke. “Tell me, Amara… What is it you’re hiding?”

The glass nearly slipped from my hand. My name on his lips was a weapon, cutting through every layer of composure I’d built.

He knew.

Or at least, he suspected.

I set the flute down, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “Hiding? You make me sound like some kind of criminal.”

“Everyone hides something,” he said smoothly, swirling his glass. “The question is whether yours will destroy you.”

The fire crackled between us, throwing shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the intensity of his stare.

I lifted my chin. “And what about you, Mr. Blackwood? What are you hiding?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Far more than you’re ready to hear.”

The silence that followed was thick, stretching taut between us.

Then he leaned forward, placing his glass aside. “You intrigue me, Amara. And I don’t like mysteries I can’t solve.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. I had to keep my mask intact, had to survive this night without slipping.

But as he stepped closer, the firelight catching in his storm-colored eyes, one terrifying thought took root—

What if Damian Blackwood unraveled me before I unraveled him?