Chapter 10 Her Price, His Power

The following morning, a new dress arrived.

No note.

No threat.

No apology.

Just a gown-black, floor-length, sleek as sin-with a slit up the leg and a neckline that dared the world to look away.

It came with matching heels, diamond earrings, and a text from Damien's assistant:

"Black car arrives at 6 PM. Formal. Smile."

That was it.

No explanation for the shattered watch.

No mention of the kiss that had burned and bruised like punishment.

Just an order disguised as etiquette.

Isla stared at the dress hanging in her room like a noose made of satin.

She knew what this was.

A test.

Or worse , a leash with glitter on it.

She should've refused.

She should've burned it.

But when the clock struck six, Isla Hart walked down the penthouse stairs dressed like every man's fantasy and every woman's threat.

Damien was waiting in the foyer.

Black tuxedo.

No tie.

No smile.

Just cold eyes and silence, as if their last confrontation had never happened.

His gaze slid over her slowly, unreadable.

"You clean up well," he said.

She didn't return the compliment.

---

The car ride was silent, the air between them thick with unspoken things. Regret. Defiance. Maybe even desire. Isla pressed her forehead to the cool window and refused to look at him.

Damien didn't speak until they reached the venue-a glass-and-steel tower lit up like a beacon against the city skyline.

Tonight's event was for the Blackwood Foundation-a fundraising gala where power dressed up in champagne and secrets.

As the car door opened, Isla paused.

"What do you expect me to do?"

Damien looked at her, expression unreadable. "Smile. Stand beside me. Look like you're mine."

Her lips tightened. "So just another performance."

"No," he said. "This one's for blood."

Inside, the gala glittered like every illusion Isla had ever hated.

Crystal chandeliers. Flashing cameras. Perfect smiles hiding knives behind teeth.

People turned when they walked in. Of course they did. Damien Blackwood didn't just enter a room-he claimed it.

And Isla, on his arm, was the ultimate claim.

The whispers started instantly.

"Is that her?"

"She's stunning."

"He never brings women to these."

"Is she his wife or just the next scandal?"

She kept her head high.

But inside, she felt like glass.

They stopped near the center of the ballroom, surrounded by power. Damien held her hand lightly, but his grip was an anchor.

Then came her.

A woman in red silk, skin like porcelain, voice smooth as venom.

"Damien," she purred. "You didn't tell me you were bringing a pet."

Isla froze.

The woman was beautiful. Older. Smarter. Deadlier.

"Celeste," Damien said, cool and dry. "Still poisoning rooms, I see."

She smiled. "Only the ones worth poisoning."

Her eyes slid to Isla.

"And you must be the replacement bride."

Isla felt her mouth go dry. She opened it but Damien spoke first.

"She's not a replacement," he said sharply. "She's the only one."

Something about his tone silenced even Celeste.

The woman blinked, then gave a cold smile and moved on.

Isla turned to him. "What was that?"

"A favor."

"I don't need favors."

"You will," he said, his voice low. "By the end of tonight."

They danced once.

Just once.

The music was slow, elegant. The room turned like a waltz in a dream.

Damien's hand rested low on her back. His palm against hers.

To the crowd, they looked like the perfect couple. Polished. Passionate. Powerful.

To Isla, it felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of fire.

"I thought you hated me," she whispered, staring straight ahead.

"I do," he murmured. "But the world doesn't need to know that."

She turned her face to his. "And what do I need to pretend I am tonight?"

He looked at her like she was the only real thing in a room full of mirrors.

"My weakness," he said.

It almost sounded like a confession.

---

By the end of the night, Isla's cheeks ached from smiling. Her spine hurt from standing tall. Her throat burned from champagne and holding back everything she wanted to scream.

When they finally returned to the penthouse, she didn't wait for him to speak.

She turned to him in the elevator.

"Why?"

He didn't answer.

"Why parade me in front of them like a trophy? After everything you've done to make me feel invisible, why now?"

Damien leaned against the wall, eyes heavy with something unreadable.

"Because the world needed to see that I still win."

Her breath caught.

"That's all I am to you? A win?"

"No," he said. "You're the cost of one."

The elevator doors slid open.

He stepped out.

Left her there.

And for the first time in weeks, Isla felt something worse than fear.

She felt empty.

Later that night, as she peeled off the gown and stood in the moonlight in nothing but silence, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Not Isla Hart.

Not Isla Blackwood.

Just... a girl wrapped in someone else's war.

But deep in her chest, something stirred.

Not weakness.

Not pain.

But rage.

Because he thought she was a cost.

But someday, she would make herself the one thing he never calculated for:

A reckoning.