The Blackwood Gala wasn’t just an event—it was a performance, a masquerade where power was the costume and money was the mask. The ballroom was drenched in opulence: ceilings that arched like cathedral vaults, gilded with gold leaf and hand-painted cherubs; chandeliers so massive and ornate, they looked like they had fallen from a palace in the clouds. The air smelled of jasmine, old money, and expensive champagne.
Elena descended the steps at Damien’s side, her gown hugging her like a secret, midnight blue and dipped in crystals. It shimmered under the lights, catching gazes like a flame catches moths. Her hair was swept up, a few rebellious strands kissing her cheek. She looked every inch the woman who belonged in this world—but inside, she felt like a well-dressed fraud.
Damien’s hand
