Chapter 38
Kayna’s POV
The elevator glided soundlessly upward, the floor numbers flashing in sleek gold until it stopped at the very top. The penthouse.
I’d never been there after the last time. I hadn’t imagined I’d be here again so soon. The idea of walking into Damian Marshall’s home felt strange, like crossing some invisible threshold between two worlds. At work, he was precision and command in human form. But here… this was his space. His private one.
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped into silence.
His penthouse wasn’t only extravagant —it was incredibly impeccable. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline, sunlight spilling across marble floors and minimalist furniture in muted shades of black, gray, and white. Every surface gleamed. Every detail was intentional.
“You’re Miss Scott?”
“Yes I the one” I replied as calmly as possible so as not to appear as anxious as I actually was.
A tall woman in her mid-thirties approached with a smile, clipboard in hand, wearing sleek black from head to toe. Her hair was cropped close, her makeup immaculate.
“I’m Mariah,” she said, offering her hand. “Thank you for coming. Felix is already setting up in the next room.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, following her through a wide corridor lined with art—modern pieces, bold and sharp.
The room opened into a sprawling living space where Felix, the stylist, stood surrounded by racks of fabric and garment bags. His energy filled the space before his words did—animated, expressive, dramatic.
“Ah, there she is!” he exclaimed, gesturing like a director on a movie set. “Our mystery muse!”
“Good afternoon,” I greeted, feeling oddly out of place amid the glitz.
Felix tilted his head, eyes sweeping me up and down. “You’re taller than I imagined. That’s good. Structure, presence—Damian didn’t undersell you.”
My cheeks warmed instantly. “He… mentioned me?”
“Of course. He said his assistant needed something understated but powerful.” Felix tapped his lip thoughtfully. “Though I’m not sure understated does you justice, darling.”
Mariah chuckled softly, already unpacking accessories. “Shall we get started?”
I nodded, letting them usher me toward the changing area partitioned by a folding screen.
The next hour unfolded in a blur of textures and light.
Silk brushed my skin, soft and cold. Felix moved like a sculptor, draping, pinning, adjusting, stepping back to inspect. He spoke in half-phrases—about color palettes and camera flashes, about fabric that “breathes sophistication” and neckline symmetry.
“Turn,” he instructed. “Good. Shoulders back. Let the dress speak.”
When I finally looked in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself.
The gown was midnight blue—so deep it bordered on black under certain light, but when I turned, it shimmered like ink kissed by stars. The fabric hugged my waist before flowing down in graceful ripples, modest yet hypnotic. The neckline was elegant, a subtle off-shoulder that revealed the line of my collarbones but nothing more.
Felix stepped back with a grin. “Classic. Powerful. The kind of look that whispers instead of shouts.”
Mariah clasped a delicate diamond cuff around my wrist. “Hair up or down?”
“Down,” Felix decided instantly. “Soft waves. Give her movement. Let her look like she belongs to the night.”
When the last curl fell perfectly over my shoulder and the final touch of gloss caught the light, I could only stare.
That woman in the reflection—she wasn’t the girl who hid behind folders and schedules. She wasn’t the assistant nervously dialing her boss to confirm appointments.
She looked like she belonged somewhere else entirely.
“Ready to show him?” Felix asked, teasingly.
“Show who?”
He smirked. “Your boss, of course. The man footing this very expensive transformation.”
My stomach twisted. “He’s here?”
“He’s been in his office since we arrived,” Mariah said with a grin. “Probably pretending to work while waiting to see the finished product.”
I took a steadying breath and nodded. “Okay.”
Felix snapped his fingers dramatically. “Then, darling, let’s make an entrance.”
I stepped into the hallway, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
Damian was by the window when I entered the main room, phone in one hand, jacket draped over the other. He turned at the sound of my footsteps—and then stopped.
Completely.
For a moment, everything in the room went still. The hum of the city outside, the whisper of air-conditioning, even my pulse seemed to pause.
His gaze caught mine, unreadable at first—and then something changed in his eyes. A flicker. A spark that said he wasn’t just looking; he was seeing.
“Kayna.” My name left his lips like a breath.
I didn’t know what to do. My fingers fidgeted against the fabric at my sides. “Do I… look appropriate?”
He blinked, as though coming back to himself. “Appropriate isn’t the word I’d use.”
My cheeks burned.
He cleared his throat, stepping closer. His suit was sharp—black on black, crisp white shirt, no tie. Simple. Dangerous.
“Felix outdid himself,” he said finally, voice low.
Felix preened behind me. “I always do.”
Damian’s lips curved slightly. “Thank you, Felix. We’ll take it from here.”
When the stylist and his team began packing up, I turned toward the window to hide how unsteady I suddenly felt. Damian was still watching me, I could feel it—the weight of his gaze pressing against my back.
“Ready?” he asked finally.
“As I’ll ever be,” I said softly.
The drive to the gala felt suspended in another kind of silence. The city blurred past outside, lights streaking against the tinted glass. Damian sat beside me, his usual composed demeanor softened by something I couldn’t name.
Every now and then, his hand brushed mine as the car hit a bump, and each time my breath caught.
When the car slowed near the entrance, the flash of cameras cut through the tinted windows like lightning. I could already hear the hum of reporters, the rhythmic chant of voices shouting for attention.
Damian leaned slightly toward me. “Stay close when we get out,” he said quietly. “I’ll handle the press.”
I nodded, fingers tightening around the small clutch I carried.
The door opened, and the world exploded in light.
Camera flashes, clicking shutters, overlapping questions—each one louder than the last.
“Mr. Marshall! Over here!”
“Damian, who’s your date tonight?”
“Is she just a friend or something more?”
“Mr. Marshall, are you two together?”
The chaos was dizzying. I barely managed a smile, following Damian’s lead as he placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. The touch was steady, grounding. Protective.
“Stay close,” he murmured again, voice just for me.
I tried to focus on breathing, on walking gracefully even as my heart raced. The air shimmered with noise and flashes, and yet, somehow, all I could think about was the warmth of his hand lingering at my spine.
“Is she the one, Damian?” one of the reporters shouted above the others. “The mystery woman everyone’s been talking about?”
Damian didn’t answer. But I felt his hand tighten slightly—a subtle gesture that said more than words ever could.
Inside, the noise dimmed, replaced by the low murmur of voices and clinking glasses. Chandeliers hung like constellations overhead, and the crowd shimmered with wealth and charm.
I turned to him, half-breathless. “Does it ever get easier?”
He looked down at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. “No,” he said. “You just learn to breathe through it.”
I smiled faintly. “I’ll try to remember that.”
He studied me for a long moment, then leaned closer, his voice softer. “You did well out there.”
“I followed your lead.”
“You didn’t need to.”
For a moment, the noise around us faded, and there was only the quiet pulse of something deeper—something neither of us dared to name.
Then he straightened, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
I placed my hand lightly against his sleeve, the silk of my glove brushing his wrist. “We shall.”
And as we stepped into the glittering sea of guests, the thought echoed in my mind—clear, insistent, terrifying:
This was no longer just business.
Whatever this was between us—it had already begun to change everything.