CHAPTER THREE: THE GALA
1910 Words
Tessa had never owned a dress worth more than $60.
The box sitting on her studio table cost more than her rent.
_From: Vance Holdings Wardrobe Dept.
For: Ms. Moore. Gala Attire. Do not be late._
No note. No name. Just Damian.
Inside was a midnight blue gown. Silk. Sleeveless. It dipped low in the back and skimmed the floor. No glitter. No ruffles. Just expensive. The tag inside read _Elie Saab_. She googled it. $12,400.
Her hands shook.
And a smaller note pinned to the strap: _“4:45 PM. Driver downstairs.”_
She stared at it for ten minutes.
“Zara,” she called. “Do I look like a PA or a fraud?”
Zara, propped on the couch with her tablet and her inhaler next to her, looked up. “You look like a princess, Tess.”
Tessa’s throat tightened. “I’m not a princess, baby.”
“You are to me.” Zara went back to her game. “Can you braid my hair before you go?”
Tessa knelt by the couch. Her fingers worked on Zara’s curls while her mind raced. _Hale Industries files. Victor’s deadline. Damian’s eyes last night._ “Don’t lie to me.”
She wasn’t lying to Zara. But she was lying to everyone else.
“Will you be home late?” Zara asked.
“Yes, baby. But Nurse Chen has my number. If you need me, call.”
Zara nodded, but her small hand gripped Tessa’s sleeve. “Don’t be late like last time.”
The words gutted her. “I won’t.”
It was a lie. She had no idea what time she’d be home.
---
At 4:43 PM, a black Maybach idled outside her building.
The driver, a silent man in a suit, held the door. No questions. No small talk.
Vance Holdings Tower was different at night. Red carpet. Photographers. Women in diamonds and men who’d never worried about an electric bill.
Tessa’s borrowed heels clicked too loud on the marble.
Ms. Harrington spotted her at the elevator. Her eyes ran over the dress, slow, assessing. “Oh.”
It wasn’t a compliment.
“Mr. Vance sent that,” Ms. Harrington said.
It wasn’t a question.
Tessa nodded. “Where do I—”
“Ballroom. 32nd floor. Don’t spill anything on it.” She sniffed. “And Ms. Moore? Try not to look so terrified. You’ll ruin the silk.”
Classy.
The elevator ride was silent. Tessa gripped the strap of her clutch until her knuckles hurt.
_You’re a PA. Not a guest. Not his. Just a PA._
The doors opened.
The ballroom was all glass and chandeliers. Billionaires in tuxedos. Heirs with last names on buildings. The air smelled like money and white roses.
Tessa stuck to the walls.
_Damian’s POV_
He saw her before she saw him.
She came through the doors like she was bracing for impact. Midnight blue silk, hair down in soft waves, no jewelry except the small studs she always wore. She looked terrified. And she looked like she belonged here more than half the women in the room.
His tie suddenly felt too tight.
Five dresses had been sent. She picked the one he would’ve chosen.
“Mr. Vance.”
Damian turned. A board member. He nodded, said two words, and his eyes were back on her.
She didn’t see him yet. She was scanning the room like prey.
His jaw tightened. _Mine._ The thought was instant. Unreasonable. And he didn’t fight it.
“Ms. Moore.”
She turned.
Damian.
He wore black. Of course. No tie. Top button open. He looked like sin in a suit. His eyes dropped, slow, from her face to her dress and back up. It took him a second to speak.
“You came,” he said.
“You sent the dress.”
“I sent five. You picked the right one.”
Her cheeks burned. “Thank you. For—”
“Don’t.” His gaze locked on hers. “You look like you belong here.”
She didn’t. And they both knew it. But for a second, she wanted to believe him.
“Mr. Vance,” a voice cut in. Sharp. Blonde. Designer.
Sophia Reid.
Tessa recognized her from board photos. Daughter of a Vance investor. The woman who’d been photographed leaving his building three years ago. Before his fiancée died.
“Damian,” Sophia purred. Her hand went to his arm. Manicured nails. Red. “You’re late.”
He didn’t move it. He didn’t look at her.
“Ms. Reid,” he said flatly. “This is Ms. Moore. My PA.”
PA. Right.
Sophia’s smile thinned. Her eyes raked over Tessa’s dress. “Your PA? In that dress?”
Tessa’s stomach dropped. _Fraud. Caught._
Damian finally looked at Sophia. Grey eyes cold. “Is there a problem with my PA’s dress, Ms. Reid?”
The ballroom went quiet. Conversations dipped.
Sophia’s laugh was too high. “Of course not. I just didn’t know you were bringing… staff.”
“Staff don’t attend galas,” Damian said. “Guests do.”
He slid his hand to the small of Tessa’s back. Warm. Possessive. His palm was large and steady against the bare skin above her zipper.
Tessa sucked in a breath.
“Excuse us.”
He led her away before Sophia could answer.
Tessa exhaled the moment they were out of earshot. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did.” His thumb brushed her spine once. Accidental? It didn’t feel like it. “You work for me. No one disrespects my people.”
People. Not staff.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. He just guided her to the terrace. Quieter. Cold air hit her bare shoulders. NYC glittered below them like a circuit board.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m cold.”
Lie.
Damian shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy. It smelled like him. Clean. Expensive. Cedar and something darker.
“That’s better,” he said.
Tessa gripped the lapels. She was drowning in it. “Mr. Vance—”
“Damian.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“When we’re not in the office. Damian.”
“I can’t— that’s not professional.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back. “Then don’t be professional for five minutes.”
Her heart hammered. He was close enough that she could count his lashes. See the faint stubble he missed on his jaw.
“Why did you come to my apartment last night?” she asked. Before she could stop herself.
Damian’s jaw ticked. “Because you left.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No. It’s not.” He looked out at the city. His profile was sharp. Tired. “Your sister. Is she stable?”
“She is. Thank you for asking.”
He nodded. Silence stretched. Comfortable. Dangerous.
Then music started inside. A waltz. Slow.
“Do you dance, Ms. Moore?”
“Tessa.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. It changed his whole face. “Do you dance, Tessa?”
“No.”
“Good. Neither do I.” He held out his hand. “Lie to me.”
She should’ve said no. She should’ve walked inside.
She took his hand.
His fingers were warm. Calloused. He pulled her in. One hand at her waist. One holding hers. They didn’t move at first. Just stood there, swaying an inch.
“You’re tense,” he murmured.
“You’re touching me.”
“I know.” His thumb drew a slow circle on her back. Over silk. Over skin. “Is this a problem?”
Yes. It was a Victor-sized problem. It was a firing problem. It was a heartbreak problem.
“No,” she lied.
Damian’s eyes darkened. “Good girl.”
The words hit her like a slap. Her breath caught. Her knees went weak.
“Damian—”
The terrace door opened.
Marcus Dale. Victor’s enforcer.
Tessa froze. Her blood turned to ice.
Marcus’s eyes found hers. He smiled. Slow. Ugly. “Ms. Moore. Fancy seeing you here.”
Damian’s hand on her waist went steel. “You’re not on the list.”
“Just delivering a message.” Marcus’s gaze didn’t leave Tessa. “Tell Victor you got it.”
He dropped a black envelope at their feet and walked off. No security stopped him.
Tessa bent to grab it.
Damian’s hand stopped her wrist. His grip was firm. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not for you. It’s for me.” He picked it up with two fingers. Unopened. His expression gave nothing away. But his eyes… they knew. “Go inside. Now.”
“Damian—”
“Now, Tessa.”
She went. Her legs felt like water.
Inside, she hid in the bathroom. Locked the door. Hands shaking. The envelope. Victor was here. In the building. Watching her.
Her phone buzzed.
Victor: _“Nice dress. He likes you. Use it. I want Hale’s Q4 files by Friday. Or your sister’s school fees stop Monday.”_
Tessa’s vision blurred. _Monday._ That was four days.
The door opened.
Sophia.
“Well, well.” She leaned on the sink. “The PA. In a $12,000 dress. Sleeping her way to the top?”
Tessa lifted her head. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Sophia’s smile was cruel. “Damian doesn’t date. He uses. Ask his dead fiancée.”
Tessa stood. Her hands fisted at her sides. “Don’t talk about—”
“What? The truth?” Sophia stepped close. “He’ll drop you by Friday, sweetheart. They always do. You’re just the latest project.”
The bathroom door opened again.
Damian.
Sophia turned, smile dropping. “Damian, I was just—”
“Out.”
One word. Ice. Final.
Sophia blinked. “I—”
“Out. Now.”
She left.
Silence. Only the sound of the faucet dripping.
Damian’s eyes went to Tessa. Pale. Shaking. Tears she refused to let fall. Mascara smudged under one eye.
“What did she say to you?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
“Tessa.”
“She said you’ll drop me by Friday.” Her voice broke. “Is she right?”
Damian went still. Then he crossed the room in two steps. He didn’t touch her. He just stood there, furious. Not at her. For her.
“No,” he said. “No one touches you. No one talks to you. And no one tells you what I’ll do.”
His hand lifted. Hovered near her cheek. His thumb almost brushed her skin. Didn’t touch. He pulled back like he’d been burned.
“Go home,” he said. “Driver’s waiting.”
“Damian—”
“Go. Before I do something I’ll regret.”
She ran.
In the car, she opened her phone.
Victor: _“Friday. Or else.”_
She closed her eyes.
Damian suspected. Victor threatened. And she was caught in the middle wearing a dress she couldn’t afford, with his jacket still on her shoulders.
Her phone buzzed again. Not Victor.
Lena: _“Girl. You look hot. Did he touch you yet? 👀”
Tessa stared at the screen and didn’t answer.
Because yes. He had.
And she was in trouble.
- Writer
