Chapter 2 Masked party
POV: Damian Cade
The penthouse hums with false laughter and expensive lies. Another night. Another meaningless spectacle and another test of patience.
I lean against the obsidian bar, with a glass of Macallan in hand, watching masks glide across the polished marble. Politicians in wolf masks, CEOs in gold leaf, heirs and heiresses dripping with desperation. They come dressed in velvet and decadence, pretending to celebrate, but I know why they’re here. To flatter, to fawn, to sink their teeth into the scraps of my empire.
Pathetic.
This is my city. My game and my rules.
“Mr. Cade.” Senator Vargos approaches in a fox mask, his cologne choking, his smile rehearsed. “A magnificent event. Chicago’s elite all in one place—thanks to you.”
I swirl my drink. “Elite?” My tone is silk with knives. “You mean parasites. Half this room is laundering favors through the other half.”
He chuckles nervously, tugging at his mask. “You do have a sharp wit.”
“No. I have clarity.” I dismiss him with a look sharp enough to cut marble. He bows out.
They never last long under my eyes. Not once they realize that I see through them. I see them for what they are.
Across the ballroom, a senator whispers into a real estate tycoon’s ear. The tycoon’s hand shakes. Bribes, bargains, backstabs. Same script, different stage.
I sip, tasting nothing but the bitterness of knowing.
In this world, trust is currency, and I haven’t spent a cent in years. Not since her.
The memory cuts like glass, sharp and unwelcome. A soft and poisonous voice from thr past, whispering promises of loyalty while betraying me with a smile. I lock it away before it can bleed.
Control is survival. And I don’t bleed anymore.
“Sir.” Adrian, my head of security, leans close. “The performers are ready.”
Finally, a distraction.
“Send them in.”
The ballroom hushes as the velvet curtains part. The music shifts, sultry and rhythmic while six women glide forward in sequins and feathers. Masks glitter, champagne flows, men cheer.
And then—her.
No sequins, no glitter. She’s simpler, raw. Too raw.
She moves as if every step is a dare. Mask of silver lace, hair tumbling down her shoulders. Not the polished precision of the others but something sharper, awkward yet deliberate. As though she doesn’t belong here—yet she owns it by refusing to bow.
My eyes narrow.
This one definitely doesn’t belong here.
The others twirl for applause but she doesn’t. She keeps her distance, spinning only when necessary, always holding herself apart, as if protecting a secret.
Interesting.
I don’t like “interesting.” Interesting means risk, risk means cracks. And cracks? They collapse empires.
Yet I can’t look away. I want to take the risk.
Adrian mutters, “You want me to move her along? She’s… off.”
“No.” My voice is ice. “Bring her to me.”
She’s led through the crowd, caught in the spotlight. While I wait in my corner of shadows, where the view is sharpest.
When she’s close enough, I let silence choke the air.
Finally, I speak.
“You don’t belong here.”
Her chin tilts, defiant. “Neither do you.”
I arch a brow. No one speaks to me like that. Not unless they want to be destroyed.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I know what kind of man you are.”
My glass pauses halfway to my lips. I study her mask, her lips, the stubborn lift of her jaw. Her voice trembles—but only slightly. She’s scared. She should be terrified. Yet she stands.
“Enlighten me,” I murmur.
“You’re the man everyone here pretends to worship, but secretly fears. The man who doesn’t smile because he doesn’t have to. The man who built an empire on ruined reputations.”
I lean closer, the air thick between us. “And yet you walked into my den.”
She fires back, “Maybe I wanted to see if the wolf bites as hard as they whisper.”
My pulse stills. This is not performance. This is provocation.
And God help me, it’s almost… refreshing.
I circle her slowly, a predator with time to kill. She doesn’t flinch, though I see her breath quicken.
“You’re no performer,” I state.
“Maybe I’m better than the ones you usually hire.”
I let out a low chuckle—rare, dangerous. “Better? You stumbled onto my stage like a lamb in a masquerade.”
“Funny thing about lambs,” she replies. “Sometimes they grow fangs.”
My hand stills on the rim of my glass. That word. Fangs. It lands heavier than it should.
She’s bold. Too bold. No woman in this room dares speak to me this way. Not without a motive.
I lean in until my breath brushes her ear. “Careful. Wolves don’t like competition.”
“Maybe that’s why you noticed me,” she whispers back.
I exhale a laugh, slow and disbelieving. She’s reckless. She has no idea the storm she’s baiting.
Or does she?
Adrian coughs discreetly. “Sir, we have—”
“Leave.” My voice is iron. He obeys instantly.
Now it’s only her and me, shadowed by chandeliers, the party fading into background noise.
I set my glass down. “Remove the mask.”
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she does.
And my world tilts.
Those eyes.
I clearly remember her. The girl who wanted to destroy me so bad that she doesn't know that she's playing with the lions tail. I ended her career with a single phone call and how she's here.
The little journalist who thought she could wound me.
My face breaks into a cruel, slow smile.
“Well,” I murmured. “Chicago’s fallen starlet. I should’ve guessed.”
Her mouth parts in shock. She hadn’t expected recognition. Rookie mistake.
“You remember me,” she says softly.
“Forget you?” I take a step closer. “Darling, you were my favorite failure.”
She stiffens, fury flashing in her eyes. “You ruined me.”
“No.” My voice is silk, sharp. “You ruined yourself. I simply lit the match.”
Her nails dig into her palms, trembling. But she doesn’t step back.
Instead, she says the boldest thing yet:
“Maybe this time, I’ll be the one to ruin you.”
The words hang heavy, electric. And for the first time in years, something cracks in my perfect armor. I am amused and intrigued.
I take her chin between my fingers, forcing her to meet my gaze. Cold, calculating and hungry for control.
“You want to play little journalist? Then understand the rules.”
I lean in, my whisper venom and promise.
“In my world, masks aren’t for hiding. They’re for surviving.”
Her breath hitches. But her eyes—God, her eyes don’t break.
For the first time in forever, I feel alive.
I release her chin slowly, deliberately. Then I turn to Adrian, who has returned, waiting for orders.
“Bring her to my study,” I command.
Elara freezes.
I smile without warmth, my gaze never leaving her.
“Let’s see how well the little lamb survives when the wolf closes the door.”