Chapter 10 Damage in Designer Shoes

The gala was a social battlefield dressed in sequins and secrets.

Celene adjusted the neckline of her silk gown and kept her chin high as she stepped out of the black Bentley. Cameras flashed. People stared. Whispers circled her like vultures scented blood.

And right behind her, Adrian emerged-tailored in black, face carved from stone, his hand at her waist like a brand.

She hated how good they looked together.

"How many of these people do you actually like?" she asked as they walked the red carpet.

"None," he replied without missing a beat. "But I like owning the room they worship."

Inside, chandeliers glittered like judgmental stars. The air reeked of expensive perfume and ambition. Waiters floated by with champagne flutes. Guests smiled with teeth but not eyes.

Celene's heels clicked sharply on marble as they weaved through the crowd. Every time she tried to step away from Adrian, he pulled her closer, as if her distance was a threat to his control.

"I feel like a trophy," she muttered under her breath.

"You are," he said. "But one I had to fight for."

She didn't know whether to slap him or kiss him.

Then she saw her. Amanda. The ex-fiancée. The perfectly curated socialite with the serpent's smile.

"Oh," Celene said flatly. "This night just keeps giving."

Amanda approached, all elegance and slow poison.

"Adrian," she purred. "You brought... someone."

Celene stepped forward, letting her smile drip with politeness. "I'm the someone. Nice to meet the leftovers."

Adrian choked on a laugh. Amanda did not.

"Well," Amanda said coolly, "I hope you enjoy your time with him. Just know... he always leaves eventually."

Celene leaned in, her voice a whisper wrapped in barbed silk. "Only thing he left you was single and bitter."

Amanda's jaw clenched. Celene turned back to Adrian, her smile still sweet.

"Can we get a drink now? I feel dehydrated from all the fake in here."

They walked away, Adrian's smirk too wide to hide.

"You enjoy that a little too much," he said.

Celene sipped champagne. "I'm not your little lamb, Cross."

"No," he murmured, eyes scanning her curves. "You're the wolf I didn't see coming."

The rest of the night blurred into opulence and tension. Hands brushed. Eyes locked. Words unspoken burned louder than the ones spoken.

But in the elevator ride up to the penthouse, silence devoured them.

Celene turned to him slowly. "What are we doing?"

Adrian leaned against the wall, watching her.

"You tell me."

She shook her head. "This isn't a game."

"No," he agreed. "It's war."

She stepped closer. Their bodies nearly touched.

"Then why do I keep surrendering?"

Adrian's breath hitched. "Because losing to me doesn't feel like losing."

And then he kissed her.

Hard. Slow. Like he was claiming his victory one sinful second at a time.

And Celene? She let him.

Because some wars don't end with truce.

They end with tongues and torn silk.