Chapter 36

Damian’s POV

The industry gala was fast approaching. I hadn’t planned on asking her.

Hell, if anyone had told me a month ago that I’d even consider it, I would have laughed them out of my office. Me—inviting my assistant to a gala? Unthinkable. Everything about my life was calculated: who I spoke to, who I was seen with, what I wore, how long I stayed. Even my smiles were rationed like currency.

But last night had stripped something raw in me.

Alex’s return had stirred up demons I thought I’d buried. Every word he’d flung at me still echoed—the jabs about Father, about favoritism, about how I had always been the chosen one. Mother sitting there like a silent judge hadn’t helped. The scotch afterward hadn’t silenced it either; it had only sharpened the ache until I found myself almost dialing Kayna’s number. Almost.

Now morning light streamed through my office window, too harsh for the headache lingering at the back of my skull. I stared at the stack of contracts on my desk, but my mind wasn’t on clauses or signatures. It was on the gala looming at the end of the week.

Normally, I thrived at events like that. Negotiating in whispers over champagne glasses, shaking hands with CEOs who thought they were equals. But this wasn’t just any gala. My mother would be there. And Alex. Together. Both of them circling like sharks, waiting for me to slip.

The thought alone was enough to sour my stomach.

I needed a distraction. Something—someone—to draw their attention away, to give me space to breathe.

And, infuriatingly, the first person who came to mind was Kayna.

Her laugh. The sharp intelligence in her eyes. The way she carried herself with a quiet resilience that no one in my world ever seemed to have. She wasn’t part of their game, their constant push-and-pull of dominance. She was… something else. Something grounding.

But asking her? That meant admitting, even if silently, that I needed her.

I ran a hand down my face and leaned back in my chair. The idea was ridiculous. She was my assistant, not my date. Not my shield. And yet—my mind wouldn’t let it go.

The knock at my door broke my spiral. Julian slipped inside without waiting for an answer, his usual sharp suit creased slightly, as though he’d been up all night.

“You look like hell,” he said flatly.

I shot him a glare. “Nice to see you too.”

“Long night?” he asked, lowering himself into the chair opposite me.

I didn’t bother denying it. “Mother. Alex. Dinner.”

Julian’s eyebrows lifted knowingly. “Ah. That explains the storm cloud hovering over your head.”

I drummed my fingers against the desk, restless. “They’ll both be at the gala.”

“And?”

“And I don’t plan on spending three hours fending off their attacks while smiling for photographs.”

Julian studied me for a long moment, as though weighing the words I hadn’t said aloud. Finally, he leaned forward. “You’re thinking of bringing her, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

Julian smirked faintly. “Kayna’s sharp. She wouldn’t just sit there and look pretty—she’d notice things, hear things. And she makes you… less unbearable in a room.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Careful.”

“I mean it. You trust her, Damian. More than most. That alone makes her useful. The media would have a frenzy though but I’m sure it would be worth the hassle.”

Trust. The word lodged like a stone in my throat. It wasn’t a word I gave easily. But Julian wasn’t wrong.

I exhaled slowly, already hating myself for even considering it. “If I did bring her…”

“She’d draw attention in the right ways. You’d look… grounded.” His mouth tugged into the ghost of a grin. “Human, even.”

I scowled, but the truth of it dug into me.

Julian stood, smoothing his jacket. “Ask her. You’ll regret it if you don’t. And I’ll handle the rest.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my decision.

By mid-afternoon, I’d convinced myself half a dozen times not to do it. And half a dozen times more that I had no choice.

Finally, I pressed the intercom. “Kayna, come in.”

A moment later, she appeared, clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back in that neat style that somehow made her look more elegant than half the women I’d seen at black-tie dinners.

“You called Sir?” she asked.

Her voice was steady, professional. Nothing in her tone suggested she could sense the battle raging in my chest.

“Yes.” I kept mine clipped, businesslike. If I faltered now, she’d see right through me. “First, I need you to book my stylist. Custom piece, charcoal or midnight. Something that photographs well.”

Her pen scratched quickly against the pad. “Noted. Anything else?”

“Yes.”

This was the moment. The edge of the cliff.

I met her eyes, letting silence stretch just long enough for her to look slightly puzzled. Then I said, as casually as I could manage, “I’ll need you to accompany me to the industry gala.”

The pen stilled in her hand.

Her lips parted slightly, eyes widening. For a heartbeat, she didn’t answer, and the air between us thickened.

“Accompany you?” she repeated finally, careful, as though testing the word.

“Yes.” My tone was cool, clipped, but inside my chest something pounded. “You’ll be there in a professional capacity. Consider it part of your role. I’d prefer to avoid prolonged… conversations with certain guests. Your presence will make that easier.”

She hesitated. I could see the calculation in her eyes—the weighing of boundaries, of what it meant to say yes.

Finally, slowly, she nodded. “If that’s what you need, Mr. Marshall.”

The formal address stung, though I didn’t show it.

“Good,” I said, brisk again. “Then tell the stylist what you’ll need as well. Dress, accessories. Whatever you require.”

Her eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed slightly in suspicion. “You want me to—?”

“Yes. You’ll be representing this company beside me. You’ll dress accordingly.”

Another silence stretched between us. Then, softly: “All right.”

It was reluctant. But it was agreement.

Something in my chest loosened. I dismissed her with a nod, watching her retreat with her usual quiet grace. When the door closed behind her, I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly.

I’d done it. I’d asked. And she’d said yes.

But as the echo of her voice lingered, I couldn’t help wondering if I’d just made the smartest move I could—or the most dangerous.

⸻

The next day unfolded in preparations. Calls with the event organizers, last-minute confirmations, Ava running point on logistics while Kayna liaised with the stylist for fittings.

When the fabric samples arrived, I found myself distracted, watching her fingertips brush over silk and velvet as though they meant something more than just color palettes. Her focus was sharp, professional, but there was a flicker of something else there too—something unspoken, like a thread winding tighter between us.

And for the first time in years, I wasn’t dreading the gala. Not entirely.

Because this time, I wouldn’t be walking in alone.