The Billionaire’s Accidental Wife

Chapter 3: The Gala

I’d never been to a Vogue gala before.

Mostly because my version of "formal wear" was the black dress I wore to job interviews.

The one with the coffee stain on the sleeve that I prayed no one noticed and the hem I’d safety-pinned in the bathroom.

But apparently being Mrs. Damien Cole came with a whole new set of rules.

Rule #1: Look like you cost more than a car.

Rule #2: Smile even when you want to scream.

Rule #3: Don’t run.

"Miss, please stand still."

The seamstress was on her knees, pinning fabric around me while three other women buzzed around like angry bees with blow dryers.

Hair. Makeup. Nails. Spray tan. The whole attack squad.

It was 3PM. The gala was at 8.

And I hadn’t slept.

Not after Damien’s "don’t try to run, I’ll find you" speech.

Not after seeing the prenup with my own looping, drunk signature next to his sharp, furious one.

Not after realizing I was sleeping in his bed tonight. In his room. In his house. In his life.

"She needs to look like she belongs on his arm," Selena, Damien’s assistant, said as she scrolled through her tablet without looking up.

"Not like she was kidnapped from a diner at 2PM."

"I wasn’t kidnapped," I muttered, trying not to flinch as the hair straightener got too close to my ear. "I signed."

"Exactly." Selena finally glanced at me in the mirror. Her eyes were assessing. Cold. "You signed. Now act like you meant it.

Because in 5 hours, the entire city is going to be watching."

The dress arrived in a garment bag that probably cost more than my rent.

When they unzipped it, the entire room went quiet.

Black. Liquid silk. Backless. It hugged every curve I had and created curves I didn’t even know existed.

The slit went up to my thigh. The neckline plunged to places that should require a permit.

It was a "I own this room and everyone in it" dress.

"It’s too much," I whispered, hands shaking.

"It’s perfect," Selena said, already motioning for the jewelry. "Damien wants people talking. Let them talk."

Of course he did. Damien Cole didn’t do anything quietly.

By 7:30 I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

Hair in soft waves that fell past my shoulders. Smokey eyes that made me look dangerous. Red lips.

Diamond earrings that weighed more than my phone and a necklace that felt like it was choking me.

I looked like a billionaire’s wife.

I just didn’t feel like one. I felt like a girl playing dress-up in her mom’s closet.

The Maybach was waiting downstairs. Same driver. Same tinted windows. Same feeling of being trapped.

Damien was already inside.

And holy hell.

He was in a black tux. No tie. Top two buttons undone like he owned the rules and dared anyone to say something.

His hair was messy in that "I didn’t try" way that took 20 minutes and $500.

The suit was tailored to his body like it was painted on. Shoulders. Chest. The watch on his wrist that probably cost more than my student loans.

And when he looked up and saw me, his whole expression changed.

Just for a second.

His jaw went tight. His eyes dragged down my dress, slow, taking in the slit, the back, the way the silk clung.

Then back up to my face. To my eyes.

Something flickered there. Heat? Surprise? Anger?

Then the mask was back. Cold. Unreadable. CEO mode.

"You clean up well," he said, like he was commenting on the weather report.

"So do you," I shot back, sliding in and clutching my clutch like it was a shield. "For a man who’s holding me hostage."

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

"We’re not calling it that tonight. Tonight we’re calling it ‘power couple’."

"Is that what this is?"

"That’s what the press will call it." He poured himself a drink from the mini bar. Didn’t offer me one. "So smile and wave, Mrs. Cole."

The car started moving. 53 floors down felt faster than going up.

Neither of us spoke. The air was thick with his cologne, my perfume, and tension so thick I could taste it.

I watched the city pass by. My city. But from inside this car, it felt like another planet.

When we pulled up to the venue, cameras were already flashing like lightning.

Red carpet. Reporters screaming. People behind barricades holding phones up.

Because of course Damien Cole showing up would be a national event.

The door opened.

"Remember," Damien said quietly, only for me. His voice dropped, low and commanding. "Smile. Don’t talk to press. Stay on my arm.

And for god’s sake, don’t look terrified."

"I’m not terrified," I lied. My voice shook anyway.

"You are. It’s cute." He said it like it annoyed him.

Then he was out, hand extended. Waiting.

I took it.

The second our hands touched, the cameras exploded.

`Damien Cole! Who is she?!`

`Mrs. Cole?! Since when?!`

`Damien! Damien! Look here! Over here!`

Damien’s hand settled on the small of my back. Possessive. Warm. Burning through the silk like a brand.

"Smile," he murmured, not looking at me.

I did. Even though my knees were shaking so hard I was surprised I could walk.

Inside, the gala was insane.

Chandeliers that cost more than houses. Champagne towers. Waiters with trays of things I couldn’t pronounce.

Celebrities I’d only seen on TV. CEOs I’d read about in Forbes.

And every single one of them was staring at us.

"Damien!" A woman in red silk glided over. Late 30s. Perfect. Dangerous. The kind of woman who ate people for breakfast.

"Vivienne," Damien said, voice dropping 10 degrees. "Didn’t know you’d be here."

"I go where the money is," she purred, eyes like knives. Then her gaze landed on me and narrowed. "And who is this?"

"This is my wife, Ava," Damien said. His arm tightened around me, pulling me flush to his side. "Ava, Vivienne Hart. She sits on my board."

"Wife?" Vivienne’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was sharp. "How... unexpected. Congratulations."

"Thank you," I said, because that’s what wives did, apparently. My voice sounded small.

Vivienne’s gaze swept over me. Slow. Judging. My dress. My jewelry. My hand in Damien’s. My shoes.

"Well. She’s pretty," Vivienne said finally. "Let’s hope she’s also quiet. And good with NDAs." She walked away, laughing with her friends.

I felt Damien tense beside me.

"Ignore her," he said under his breath. "She’s bitter her son didn’t get the CEO position."

"Your son?"

"No. Mine."

Before I could ask what that meant, a photographer cut in.

"Damien! One photo for Vogue? The magazine wants an exclusive!"

Damien turned to me. His hand came up, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear.

The touch was so light, so intimate, that my breath caught in my throat.

His fingers lingered for half a second too long.

"Smile for them, Mrs. Cole," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

So I did.

The flash went off. Blinding.

For the next hour it was a blur.

Handshakes that crushed my fingers. Fake smiles that hurt my face. Damien introducing me as "my wife" to people who looked like they’d swallowed lemons and were trying not to gag.

I drank champagne I didn’t taste. I laughed at jokes I didn’t hear.

All while Damien’s hand never left my back. Guiding me. Claiming me.

"She’s younger than I expected," I overheard one woman whisper.

"She looks broke," another whispered back.

I pretended not to hear.

Then dinner started.

We were seated at the head table. Damien on one side, an empty chair on the other, then me.

"Why is that seat empty?" I asked, picking at my napkin.

"For whoever decides to cause a scene," he said dryly, taking a sip of wine. "It’s tradition at these things. Someone always does."

Halfway through the salmon that tasted like nothing, my phone buzzed in my clutch.

Unknown number again.

*Message: Cute dress. Too bad it won’t matter when the board votes him out next week. -V*

My blood went cold.

I looked up, scanning the room.

Vivienne was across the room, toasting with a glass of champagne. She caught my eye and winked. Slow. Deliberate.

"Problem?" Damien asked, noticing my face.

"Nothing," I said quickly, pocketing the phone with shaking hands. "Just spam."

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t push.

After dinner came the speeches. Boring. Then the awards. Boring. Then the dancing.

Damien stood, holding out his hand to me.

"Dance with me."

"I don’t—"

"You do tonight." It wasn’t a request.

The dance floor was full of couples. But the second Damien pulled me in, the room got quieter.

One hand on my waist, low. The other holding mine, tight. Close. Too close.

He smelled like sin and money and whiskey and something I couldn’t name that made my brain go fuzzy.

"Stop shaking," he murmured in my ear.

"I’m not—"

"You are." His thumb brushed over my knuckles in a slow circle. "They’re staring because they’ve never seen me bring anyone here before."

"Why did you bring me?"

"Because you’re my wife," he said simply. Like that answered everything. Like it was the only reason he needed.

The song ended. Another started. Slow. A ballad.

Damien didn’t let go.

"You did good tonight," he said, voice low so only I could hear. "Better than the actress."

"Was she prettier?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. I hated myself for asking.

Damien actually laughed. A real laugh. Low and dark. "No. She was boring. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect nothing."

"And I’m not?"

"You’re a disaster," he said, eyes scanning my face. "But you’re my disaster."

My heart did something stupid in my chest. Tripped. Then ran.

Then the music stopped.

Vivienne was suddenly there again, with two older men in suits. Board members. Their faces were grim.

"Damien. A word. Now."

"Tomorrow," he said, not letting go of me.

"It’s about the merger. And your... situation." Her eyes flicked to me, up and down. "The board has concerns about stability. About optics."

Damien’s entire body went rigid beside me.

"My personal life is not up for discussion at a gala."

"When it affects a 2 billion dollar deal, it is." Vivienne smiled at me, all teeth. "Goodnight, Mrs. Cole. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

They walked away.

The air left the room.

Damien turned to me. The storm was back in his eyes, darker now.

"We’re leaving."

Back in the car, neither of us spoke. The silence was heavy. Angry.

Not until we were 20 floors up in the elevator did I dare to speak.

"Are you okay?" I asked before I could stop myself. Stupid question.

"Why do you care?" He didn’t look at me.

"Because you’re my husband. For 6 months."

"Right." He pressed his forehead against the cool elevator wall. "6 months."

The doors opened to the penthouse. Dark. Silent. Cold.

I kicked off the heels. My feet were killing me. Blisters for sure.

Damien went straight to the bar and poured two glasses of whiskey. Handed me one.

"To surviving the night," he said, clinking his glass to mine. His eyes were tired.

"To 6 months," I replied quietly.

We drank in silence. Standing 3 feet apart but it felt like miles.

Then he looked at me. Really looked. Like he was seeing me for the first time.

"You were beautiful tonight," he said quietly. No smirk. No sarcasm.

"Thank you."

"You were also terrified."

"Also true."

He set his glass down on the marble counter. Stepped closer. Invaded my space.

"Ava."

"What?" My voice was barely a whisper.

"If this gets worse... if the board pushes... I need you to trust me."

"Why would I trust you? You lied to me. You trapped me."

"Because I don’t lie to the people I’m trying to protect." His eyes searched mine. "And I am trying to protect you."

The air between us shifted. Crackled.

For a second I thought he was going to kiss me.

For a second I thought I wanted him to.

My phone buzzed again, shattering the moment.

Message: Board meeting. 9AM. Be there, wife. Wear something appropriate. _D

Damien saw it over my shoulder and cursed under his breath.

"Go to bed," he said roughly, running a hand through his hair. "Big day tomorrow. We need to present a united front."

He turned and walked to the other side of the penthouse. To the master bedroom.

Our bedroom.

I stood there in my $10,000 dress, holding a glass of whiskey, married to a man who looked at me like I was both a problem and a solution.

A liability and an asset.

A mistake and a necessity.

6 months.

I could do 6 months.

Right?

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. 53 floors up. The entire city spread out below me, glittering.

From up here, everything looked small. My problems. My life. Me.

But for the first time, I didn’t feel small.

I felt like Mrs. Cole.

God help me.