Curves,claws and contracts

The Gala Scandal

The Grand Imperial Hotel looked like it was made of gold and secrets.

Valets. Paparazzi. A red carpet that had never seen someone like Amara Johnson.

She tugged at the emerald gown. It hugged every curve. The stylist had called it "brave." Amara called it "terrifying."

"You look fine," Damian said from beside her. Black tux. Cold face. "Stop fidgeting."

"I’m not fidgeting. I’m preparing to fight."

"Tonight we don’t fight. Tonight we smile."

"Right. Because smiling is how we take down Victor."

"It’s how we survive him."

The car stopped. Flashbulbs.

Damian got out first, then turned and offered his hand.

Rule 2: No touching.

Amara took it anyway.

The second they stepped inside, the whispers started.

"That’s the contract wife."

"She doesn’t look like his type."

"Victor Hale is here. This will be messy."

And there he was. Victor Hale in a navy suit, wine glass in hand, eyes locked on them like prey.

"Damian. Mrs. Cole." Victor did that fake kiss to the air again. "Emerald suits you. Very... bold."

"Thank you," Amara said sweetly. "It’s nice to be seen. Unlike some people’s offshore accounts."

Victor’s smile didn’t waver. "Careful. You wouldn’t want another scandal."

Damian stepped between them. "What do you want, Hale?"

"Just to toast the happy couple." He raised his glass. "To contracts. And consequences."

A waiter passed with champagne. As Victor reached for a glass, his elbow "slipped."

Red wine splashed directly across the front of Amara’s dress. Right over her chest.

Gasps.

The stain spread like blood.

Amara froze. Humiliation burned hot. She could hear the cameras clicking.

"Oh no," Victor said, not sorry at all. "Clumsy me. Let me—"

"Don’t touch her." Damian’s voice was ice.

He pulled off his tux jacket and draped it over Amara’s shoulders in one sharp motion. His hands lingered half a second too long on her arms.

"Are you okay?" he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.

"I’m fine," she lied. Her cheeks were burning.

"Good. Because we’re not leaving."

He turned to the room. To the cameras. To Victor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Damian said, voice carrying. "My wife was just assaulted with a drink. On purpose."

Victor laughed. "Assaulted? It was an accident."

"Was it?" Damian’s eyes were flat. "Because I have security footage from 3 other galas where you did the exact same thing to women who wouldn’t do business with you."

More gasps.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Victor said.

"Then let me explain it for you." Damian pulled Amara closer to his side. "This is Mrs. Cole. She is a brilliant lawyer. She is my partner. And if anyone in this room thinks they can humiliate her and get away with it, you’re wrong."

He looked at Victor. "Try it again. I dare you."

The room was dead silent.

Then someone started clapping. Then more.

Amara’s heart was hammering. Not from embarrassment. From him. From the way he’d said _my wife_ like he meant it.

Victor’s face was red. "This isn’t over, Cole."

"No," Damian agreed. "It isn’t."

They left 10 minutes later. In the car, Amara stared at the jacket in her lap. It smelled like him. Expensive cologne and something warm.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"Don’t thank me. It was strategy."

"Bullshit." The word came out before she could stop it. "You didn’t have to do that."

Damian looked out the window. "Maybe not."

When they got home, she went straight to her room. But 20 minutes later, there was a knock.

Room service. But no food. Just a note on a tray.

_For the wine. -D_

Under the note was a new dress. Same emerald color. With a card: _Wear this next time. Make them choke. -D_

Amara smiled. She hated that she smiled.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

_He cares more than he should. That’s his weakness. And yours. -V_

She deleted it. But she didn’t sleep that night.