Chapter 4 A Kiss Meant to Hurt

The necklace felt like a noose.

Isla stood in front of the full-length mirror, the diamonds glittering against her collarbone like tiny, perfect blades. Damien had chosen everything-her dress, her shoes, her hairstyle. She hadn't even been given the dignity of choosing her own lipstick.

Red. Always red.

The color of blood. Of warning. Of war.

The gown was strapless, liquid silk, hugging her figure with precise cruelty. She'd never worn anything so stunning or so constraining. Even her breath felt owned.

In the mirror, she barely recognized herself.

Who was this woman in crimson silk with flawless curls and empty eyes?

Not Isla Hart.

Not anymore.

"Mrs. Blackwood," a voice called from the hallway. A staff member-young, expressionless-knocked softly before entering. "Your car is ready. Mr. Blackwood is waiting."

Of course he was.

The king never arrived second.

Damien stood by the car like he was carved from stone, tall and sharp in a black three-piece suit. His tie was the same red as her dress. Coordinated. Calculated.

He didn't speak as she approached.

He simply opened the door and waited.

"You're not going to compliment your beautiful wife?" she asked with mock sweetness.

His gaze slid over her slowly. "I don't compliment things I own. I just expect them to function."

Isla's jaw tensed, but she stepped into the car anyway, chin high.

He followed.

The door closed.

They were alone again.

This time, the silence wasn't empty. It was pulsing, thick with everything unsaid between them. Power. Rage. Fire.

She broke it first.

"Where are we going?"

Damien glanced at his watch. "The Montgomery Foundation Gala."

"Who are they?"

"Old money. Clean reputations. Dirty hands."

"And I'm supposed to smile for them?"

He met her eyes. "You're supposed to act like you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

She let out a sharp laugh. "I'm not that good an actress."

He leaned in just slightly, voice soft but cutting. "Pretend harder, Isla. Or you'll find out what happens when I stop playing nice."

Her heart stuttered.

She hated how easily he unsettled her , how even his threats were delivered like lullabies.

She turned away, looking out the window as the city lights raced past. "You want a performance? Fine. I'll give you one they'll never forget."

---

The gala was held at a grand estate just outside the city-a place soaked in old money and new secrets. Paparazzi swarmed the gates like insects, their camera flashes lighting up the night sky.

The moment the car rolled to a stop, Damien reached for her hand.

She snatched it away.

His grip tightened just once before releasing her.

"Outside these doors," he said lowly, "we are a perfect couple. Touch me. Smile at me. Let me kiss you if I choose."

Her pulse jumped. "You wouldn't dare-"

"Try me."

Before she could protest, the door opened, and the flashbulbs exploded.

They walked the carpet together, every step a lie.

To the world, they looked invincible. Gorgeous. Powerful.

To Isla, it felt like being paraded through hell on a leash of diamonds.

Reporters shouted Damien's name. Cameras clicked. People whispered.

But they didn't whisper about him.

They whispered about her.

"That's his wife?"

"He finally married someone?"

"She's beautiful. But where did she come from?"

Damien smiled at all the right people. Isla mimicked him with robotic grace, her arm looped through his like a porcelain doll.

They paused for photos.

"Turn your chin," he said through clenched teeth.

She turned. He slipped his hand around her waist, his fingers digging into her skin like a brand.

"Kiss me," he whispered.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. "What?"

"Now."

And before she could protest-

He kissed her.

Hard. Sudden. Possessive.

There was no tenderness. No warning.

Just lips crashing over hers like a war had been declared in private and was now being waged on public ground.

His grip held her in place, stealing the breath from her lungs, stealing her, in front of everyone.

And yet somewhere in that kiss was something darker.

Pain. Power. Punishment.

He wasn't kissing her to show affection. He was kissing her to own her.

The crowd loved it. Camera shutters clicked faster. Applause rang out from the guests at the entrance.

Isla didn't move.

When he pulled back, her lipstick was smudged. Her breath was shallow.

She didn't slap him. That would have been too easy.

Instead, she smiled.

Wide. Empty. Perfect.

And whispered into his ear, "You kiss like a man who's never been wanted."

His jaw flexed.

But he didn't respond.

He just led her up the stairs.

Inside the ballroom, the elite danced beneath chandeliers worth more than Isla's childhood home. Champagne flowed. Music soared. Laughter echoed through air thick with ambition.

Isla stood beside Damien as he made introductions.

"This is my wife, Isla Blackwood."

She smiled on cue.

Wife.

The word tasted like ash in her mouth.

People greeted her with practiced warmth. They commented on her dress. Her posture. Her poise.

No one asked how they met.

No one cared.

They didn't want a love story. They wanted a power story.

And Damien gave them one.

She played her role, listened to him speak in low, powerful tones, watched as men shook his hand like it was a privilege. Watched women eye him like they wanted to be next.

He ignored them all.

But his hand never left her waist.

He kept her close.

A trophy.

A warning.

A message: Mine.

---

Later, as the night dragged on and exhaustion began to creep beneath Isla's skin, Damien led her to a quieter corner. The lights were softer there. The crowd thinner.

She leaned against the marble pillar, her voice low.

"You enjoy this, don't you?"

He didn't answer immediately. He sipped his drink, his eyes scanning the room like a predator.

"Enjoy what?"

"Showing them I'm yours."

His eyes met hers-sharp, clear, honest in a way that startled her.

"I'm not showing them anything," he said. "I'm showing you."

She stared at him.

And for one strange, terrifying moment, she wondered if she was truly ready for the war she'd declared.

Because Damien Blackwood didn't bluff.

He burned.

And she was already standing too close to the fire.