Chapter 27 The Party
DAMIEN
I stare at her in absolute awe.
I am a man with eyes for seeing—trained to notice details others miss, to assess value at a glance, to read intent in posture and silence. And what stands before me now is more than worthy of my attention.
She looks… unreal.
The black dress molds itself to her body with deliberate precision, like it was designed for her alone. The fabric plunges dangerously low at the front, a deep V neckline that reveals just enough cleavage to be sinful without crossing into vulgarity. The bodice is structured—almost corset-like—cinching her waist and accentuating her curves with ruthless elegance.
The skirt drapes around her hips in soft, deliberate folds, gathering slightly at the waist before falling into a sleek silhouette. And then there is the slit.
High.
Unapologetic.
Running up her left thigh, exposing smooth, flawless skin that catches the light every time she shifts her weight.
My jaw tightens.
I have to physically restrain myself from stepping closer, from running my fingers along that exposed stretch of skin in slow, possessive strokes. The urge is sharp, immediate, visceral.
Just the thought is enough to make my body react.
Fuck.
I let my eyes travel upward, forcing control where instinct threatens to take over. This is the first time I’ve seen her like this—fully transformed, polished, devastating in a way that feels intentional yet effortless.
Her makeup is flawless. Not heavy, not forced. It enhances her features instead of hiding them. Her eyes are deeper, darker, framed by lashes that make every blink feel deliberate. There’s a quiet confidence in the way she holds herself now, even if she doesn’t realize it.
Her milky-brown curls cascade over her shoulders in soft waves, rebellious strands framing her face like they refuse to be tamed. The contrast between her softness and the sharp elegance of the dress is maddening.
My gaze dips again—against my better judgment.
The neckline draws my attention back to her chest, the way the fabric dips low and curves inward, teasing without mercy. I give that view more attention than I should. More than I intend to.
My eyes finally settle on her lips.
Full. Glossed. Slightly parted.
The urge hits hard and fast—to pull her into me, to claim that mouth in a kiss that would leave no room for doubt, no room for misunderstanding.
I never expected the dress to look like this on her.
Hell, I never expected anything to look this good on anyone.
Everything she wears becomes something else entirely when she’s the one wearing it.
“Tesoro.”
The word slips from my lips before I can stop it.
My voice drops lower than usual, rougher, edged with restraint as I bite down on my lower lip and take her in once more. The way the dress clings to her like a second skin, the way the slit reveals just enough movement to torment the imagination—it’s enough to make a lesser man lose control.
I watch as her cheeks bloom with that familiar red tint, the one she never manages to hide.
“I see Richelle did a great job getting you ready,” I say finally, tearing my gaze away from her body and forcing myself to focus on her eyes instead.
Brown.
Warm.
Dangerously intoxicating.
“She has great taste,” Jasmine replies softly.
There’s a flicker in her eyes—something unreadable, fleeting—that flashes for just a second before disappearing. I file it away. I always notice things like that.
“Shall we?” I murmur.
I take her hands gently, deliberately, lifting them to my lips. My eyes never leave hers as I press two unhurried kisses to her knuckles. Her blush deepens, her fingers tightening slightly in my grasp.
I guide her toward the car, hand in hand.
The city hums around us as I drive through streets drenched in artificial light. Neon signs blur past, reflections dancing across the windshield, but my focus keeps drifting back to her.
I steal glances when I can.
She sits quietly, gazing out the window like something beyond the glass has captured her attention. The lights reflect in her eyes, giving her an almost ethereal glow.
She turns her head slightly, watching something outside.
I watch her.
Nothing else matters—not the traffic, not the noise, not the world pressing in around us. Everything fades into the background until there’s only her presence filling the space beside me.
Her eyes meet mine.
She studies me for a moment, then tilts her head.
“Aren’t you going to get that?”
I blink, snapping out of my thoughts just as the monotonous sound of my ringtone cuts through the air.
I answer without checking the screen.
“Speak.”
“Mr. Black. I hope you haven’t decided to reject my invitation at the last minute now.”
Jace
His voice is smooth, smug—ear-wrenching in its arrogance.
My grip tightens around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as restrained fury coils beneath my skin.
“I will be there, Jace,” I reply flatly.
“Good,” he says. “I hope your PA dressed well for me.” The words ignite something dark and violent inside me.
I glance at Jasmine. She’s watching me now, concern etched plainly across her face.
“Don’t you even think about it,” I say into the phone, my voice low and lethal. “If you want to keep those hands of yours, I suggest you stay far away from her.”
I don’t wait for his response.
I end the call and toss my phone aside, my jaw clenched as anger simmers dangerously beneath the surface.
If Jace has the audacity to think he can touch what’s mine, I’ll make sure he regrets it.
I ignore the questioning looks Jasmine keeps sending my way. I’m too focused on keeping control as I press harder on the accelerator, weaving through traffic and ignoring the horns blaring around us.
Finally, I slow to a stop.
The building looms to my left—glass and marble, black and gold gleaming under the moonlight. Valets and bodyguards in tailored black suits stand like sentinels.
Trust Jace to go all out.
I step out of the car, the cool night air brushing against my skin, tempering some of the fire burning inside me.
I move around to the passenger side just as Jasmine reaches for the door handle.
I stop her.
She looks up at me, eyes questioning.
I open the door fully and extend my hand.
She hesitates only briefly before placing hers in mine.
I help her out gently, deliberately, closing the door behind her. I hand my keys to the valet, and together we walk toward the entrance.
The guards step aside immediately.
Inside, classical music fills the air.
Jasmine tenses beside me.
The ballroom unfolds in opulence—women in flowing gowns, men in tailored suits, laughter and conversation blending with smooth jazz drifting from the elevated stage.
Waiters glide effortlessly, trays balanced with precision.
I place my hand at the small of Jasmine’s back.
She jerks slightly.
I lean closer, my lips grazing her ear.
“Calm down, tesoro,” I murmur. “Just breathe. Stay with me.”
I wave briefly at an approaching couple.