Chapter 39

Kayna’s POV

The ballroom was a masterpiece of light and sound. Crystal chandeliers glowed above polished marble floors, casting golden reflections on champagne glasses and designer gowns. Conversations floated like music—soft laughter, the clinking of glasses, the hum of influence.

Damian’s hand remained at the small of my back, steady and composed as he guided us through the throng of guests. I could feel the strength of it even through the thin fabric of my gown—a quiet, grounding touch.

“Smile,” he murmured near my ear as we moved past a group of photographers lingering at the entrance. His breath was warm, his tone light, but his eyes flicked sharply toward anyone who stared too long.

I tried. “I think I forgot how.”

He glanced sideways, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You’re doing fine.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant my smile or how I was pretending not to be overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of people who probably had more power than some governments.

As we approached the center of the room, a small cluster of older guests turned at our arrival. Among them stood a woman in a silver gown, her posture perfect, her chin tilted in regal confidence. I recognized her instantly—even before Damian’s hand tensed slightly at my back.

His mother.

“Mother,” Damian said smoothly as they approached.

“Damian.” Her tone was cool but polite, the smile on her lips practiced and precise. Her attention drifted to me, her gaze sweeping over me with quiet, clinical calculation. “And who is this?”

“This is Kayna Scott,” he said evenly. “My assistant. She’s been instrumental with the Cosmo partnership.”

Her brows lifted, almost imperceptibly. “Ah. The assistant. I see.”

The words weren’t cruel, but the weight behind them was unmistakable—a subtle reminder of place, of rank.

“Mrs. Marshall,” I said softly, offering my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She shook it, her fingers cool and feather-light. “You’re quite… young.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, keeping my tone even. “I started early.”

Her eyes lingered on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she turned back to Damian. “I suppose that’s admirable. Ambition is a useful trait, when properly guided.”

Damian’s jaw tightened slightly. “She’s more than capable, Mother.”

“I’m sure she is,” she said with a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You always did have an eye for potential.”

Before I could respond, a man with a laugh too loud for the setting approached and swept her into conversation, giving Damian the perfect opportunity to steer me away.

“Are all your family interactions that formal?” I asked quietly.

“Only when my mother’s trying to make a point.”

“And what point was that?”

He gave me a wry look. “That I shouldn’t bring anyone she didn’t personally approve of.”

“That’s a lot of people, then,” I said lightly.

He chuckled under his breath. “You have no idea.”

The rest of the evening unfolded in glittering fragments—handshakes, introductions, polite compliments that barely masked rivalry. Damian was flawless through it all, every word measured, every gesture confident. Yet even as he moved through the room, I could feel the way his attention kept circling back to me, like an orbit that couldn’t quite break free.

Then the atmosphere shifted.

The sound of new arrivals—laughter, camera clicks, the rustle of anticipation—drew eyes toward the main entrance. I followed the movement and froze when I saw him.

Alex Marshall.

He was the mirror image of Damian, yet everything about him was in contrast. Where Damian carried a controlled, understated confidence, Alex radiated unrestrained charm. His smile was easy, his stride unhurried, as though he owned the very air around him.

And when his gaze found me, he smiled directly—knowingly—before heading straight toward us.

“Little brother,” Alex greeted with a grin, extending his hand to Damian. “You didn’t tell me we’d be walking into a royal affair.”

Damian clasped his hand, but the grip looked more like a silent test of strength than a greeting. “You weren’t supposed to be here until next week.”

“I like surprises,” Alex said easily. “Besides, I heard there was a stunning woman attending with you. I had to see for myself.”

My breath caught. The comment hung between us, teasing and bold.

“Alex,” Damian said in a warning tone.

Alex turned to me, completely unfazed. “And you must be her. Damian’s assistant, right? Kayna, is it?”

“Yes,” I said, managing a small smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Marshall.”

He laughed lightly. “Alex, please. ‘Mr. Marshall’ makes me sound as old as him.”

Damian’s lips thinned. “Careful, Alex.”

“Oh, relax,” Alex said, turning back to me. “You’ve got to forgive him—he’s always been protective of his secrets.” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Especially the beautiful ones.”

The air between them snapped tight, charged with something raw and unspoken.

“Alex,” Damian said sharply, his voice low enough for only us to hear, “don’t start.”

Alex’s grin didn’t waver. “Just being friendly.”

I tried to ease the tension, though my pulse was racing. “It’s fine. Really.”

“See?” Alex said smoothly. “She’s gracious. You could learn a thing or two.”

Damian’s glare could’ve frozen steel. “Or I could learn restraint.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

The exchange might have seemed like banter to outsiders, but standing between them, I could feel the weight of it—the friction, the history, the sharp edge of something personal that neither of them was saying aloud.

We moved further into the gala, but the tension never eased. At one point, Alex offered me champagne, brushing my hand deliberately as he passed the glass.

“Careful,” he said softly, his voice teasing. “This crowd’s full of sharks. You might need someone to fend them off.”

I smiled politely. “I think Damian’s already handling that.”

“Ah,” he said, leaning in just a fraction closer, “but who’s handling him?”

Before I could answer, Damian appeared beside me, his expression unreadable but his proximity unmistakably possessive.

“Alex,” he said smoothly, “shouldn’t you be charming the investors from Tokyo instead of my assistant?”

“Why? She’s far more interesting.”

Damian’s tone cooled. “That depends on what kind of interest you’re implying.”

Alex lifted a brow. “You tell me.”

Their eyes locked, a silent current running between them. The room felt suddenly smaller, as though the glitter and laughter around us faded into a distant hum.

I took a slow sip of my drink, pretending not to notice, though the air between the brothers felt like it could ignite.

“Gentlemen,” a voice called from across the table, breaking the moment. A man in a tailored tux waved them over, and Alex used the distraction to excuse himself with a wink in my direction.

Damian exhaled, jaw tight. “He hasn’t changed.”

“You two… don’t get along?” I asked softly.

“We do,” he said after a pause. “Just not when he decides to make a scene.”

“Seems like he enjoys pushing your buttons.”

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “He’s had years of practice.”

The humor was fleeting, but it softened something in his expression. For a moment, he looked less like the powerful executive everyone whispered about—and more like a man simply trying to hold his world together.

“Don’t let him get to you,” I said gently.

He looked at me then, his gaze holding mine. “You shouldn’t have to tell me that.”

“Maybe you needed to hear it anyway.”

His lips curved slightly, and for a heartbeat, the world around us blurred again.

Hours slipped by in a haze of introductions, laughter, and glittering conversations. I danced once—with a kindly older investor who insisted it was tradition—and returned to find Damian watching from across the room, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

When I rejoined him, he leaned closer and murmured, “I didn’t realize I needed to guard you from octogenarians, too.”

I smiled, tilting my head. “You were busy glaring at your brother.”

“I wasn’t glaring.”

“You were definitely glaring.”

He sighed softly. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“He didn’t say anything I couldn’t handle.”

“That’s not the point,” he said, his voice lower now. “You’re—” He stopped himself, glancing away. “You’re under my responsibility tonight.”

Something in his tone made my chest tighten. “Right,” I said quietly. “Your responsibility.”

The words lingered, heavy and unspoken.

The night was winding down when the murmur of the crowd shifted again. Heads turned toward the entrance as a wave of camera flashes erupted anew.

I followed the movement instinctively—and froze.

A woman stepped through the doorway, tall and striking, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire. Her dark hair cascaded in waves down her back, her smile poised yet predatory. She looked oddly familiar but I couldn’t really place the face with all the anxiety I was already experiencing.

Even from across the room, the change in Damian’s posture was instant.

His hand, which had been resting loosely at his side, clenched.

“Who is that?” I asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the woman moving gracefully toward them, the crowd parting in her wake.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, taut.

“Ixora.”

The name itself felt like a warning.

And as the woman’s gaze locked on Damian—her smile curving with recognition and something darker—I realized this night was far from over.