Chapter 3

Megan's champagne glass nearly slipped from her fingers. Behind her, the party noise dimmed as guests craned their necks to see what had stolen her attention.

Damien didn't spare her a glance. His focus remained entirely on me.

"Sign it tonight, and I'll have the marriage registered by morning," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "Or take your time. Either way, the offer stands."

I looked at the contract in his hands. Twelve pages. Clean legal language. A prenuptial agreement that, from what I could skim, gave me complete financial independence, ownership of any assets I brought into the marriage, and—surprisingly—a clause that stated the contract could be voided at any time by either party with no penalty.

This wasn't a trap. It was a safety net.

"Serena?" Megan's heels clicked against the marble floor as she approached. Her voice had shifted from shock to that syrupy-sweet tone she used when she wanted something. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

I folded the contract and tucked it into my clutch. "No."

Megan's smile faltered. She turned to Damien and extended her hand. "I'm Megan Whitfield. Serena's sister. You must be—"

"Leaving," Damien said. He placed his hand on the small of my back. "With my fiancée."

The word detonated like a grenade.

Megan's mouth fell open. Behind her, Tyler had appeared in the doorway, his shirt still rumpled from their earlier display. His expression curdled.

"Fiancée?" Tyler repeated, incredulous. "Serena, you've been engaged to me for two years. You can't just—"

"You ended that engagement thirty minutes ago," I said. "On my sister's lap. In front of fifty witnesses. Or did you forget?"

Tyler's face reddened. He looked from me to Damien, and I watched the exact moment recognition hit him. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"You're Damien Cross," Tyler said slowly. "The Damien Cross. Crossfire Technologies."

Damien regarded Tyler the way one might regard a stain on an expensive tablecloth. "And you are?"

"Tyler Ashford. Ashford Construc—"

"I know who the Ashfords are," Damien cut him off. "Your father's company submitted a bid for one of my development projects last quarter. It was rejected."

The color drained from Tyler's face. "That was—there must have been a misunderstanding—"

"There wasn't." Damien's hand pressed gently against my back, guiding me toward the exit. "Serena, shall we?"

But my mother had materialized from the crowd like a shark sensing blood in the water. She positioned herself between us and the door, her expression a masterful blend of warmth and calculation.

"Mr. Cross, what a wonderful surprise! I'm Diane Whitfield, Serena's mother. I had no idea you two were acquainted. Please, you must join us—"

"Mrs. Whitfield." Damien's tone could have frozen the champagne fountain. "I watched the security feed from the hotel lobby on my way in. The Kensington streams its event spaces for security purposes."

My mother blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I saw everything. Your daughter—" he nodded toward Megan, "—on that man's lap. Your toast. Your applause." He paused. "Your comment about Serena being practical."

The blood drained from my mother's face.

Damien continued, "I've built a company worth twelve billion dollars, Mrs. Whitfield. I did it by identifying value that others overlook." His gaze dropped to me, and his voice softened by a single degree. "Serena is the most valuable person in this room, and every one of you was too blind to see it."

Dead silence.

I could hear my own heartbeat.

My mother opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. For the first time in my life, Diane Whitfield was speechless.

Megan, however, was not. She stepped forward, chin raised, and looked Damien up and down with an expression I recognized all too well—the same look she'd given every toy of mine she'd ever stolen.

"That's very sweet, Mr. Cross. But you clearly don't know my sister very well." She smiled. "She's not exactly the type men like you end up with. Trust me. Give it a month, and you'll see what I mean."

Damien's eyes went cold. Not angry—cold. The kind of cold that preceded avalanches.

"Ms. Whitfield," he said quietly. "Your family's real estate portfolio is leveraged against three loans held by banks in which I am the majority shareholder." He let that settle. "I'd be very careful about what you say next."

Megan went white.

I didn't look back as Damien walked me out of the ballroom. The night air hit my face, and I realized my hands were shaking—not from fear, but from something I hadn't felt in years.

Power.

As his driver opened the car door, I turned to Damien. "You've been keeping tabs on my family?"

He met my gaze steadily. "I've been keeping tabs on you."

My breath caught. "Why?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he gestured toward the car. "We have a marriage to register in the morning. I suggest you get some sleep."

I climbed in. He followed. The Rolls-Royce pulled away from the curb in silence.

I stared at the contract in my clutch and realized something terrifying.

This man had been waiting for me. Planning for me. For six months—maybe longer.

The question was: why would a billionaire who could have anyone in the world want a contract marriage with me?