Elle's Pov
"I've spent my life with people who only want power and prestige. To them, it's all about status, wealth, appearances," he says, loud enough to reach the crowd but soft enough for me to hear. "And then you came into my life… suddenly none of it matters. You make it real."
My pulse spikes. The heat from his hand crawls up my arm and settles in my chest.
"You make me feel like I can breathe."
This can't be happening, it's not real. I want to pull away, but my fingers traitors that they are, twitch instead.
He drops down onto one knee.
A wave of gasps is heard across the hall.
The lights hold still. Even the chandelier seems to listen.
"Will you marry me?"
My gift stirs within me as a vision from the past, clouds my mind. A tired, sad man with the same eyes he has now.
The crowd begins to murmur.
"Who is she?"
"Publicity stunt?"
"She is not even dressed for this."
I can feel heat rolling down my neck. The black gown that felt fine at home now feels like an insult in a sea of glitter.
He leans in. Only I hear him. "Please… say yes. I'll explain later."
My breath hitch as something inside me stirs. That strange flicker I get sometimes, since childhood. Visions that were never mine. Memories that belonged to someone else.
People around us start to whisper even louder now.
"Surprise engagements never go well," someone murmurs behind me.
"Who is she?" another hisses. "This isn't the woman from the blogs or has he been dating in secret? Why haven't we seen her on the blogs until now?"
But his grip doesn't loosen. He holds me like I was already his.
"Yes."
The hall explodes. Applause. Cheers. Camera flashes. My legs goes numb. I barely feel the ring sliding into my finger. For one heartbeat, I'm not in the ballroom anymore. Just noise, lights, and the dizzy weight of a word I didn't mean to say.
He holds me, close enough that I can feel every sharp inhale he takes. "Thank you," he says softly.
I catch my own breath, whispering, "I don't know how much more of this I can take without passing out."
He laughs, quick and rough, then turns to the crowd. "She said yes."
The cheers double. A man in a dark suit appeared at his side, posture rigid and military. "Take her to my office," he ordered.
The man nods and touches my arm. He does not smile. His gaze sizes me up, like someone he can't trust. We push through the crowd, down a quiet corridor, and toward heavy gold-trimmed doors. The sounds of celebration fade behind us.
My lungs still struggle to keep up. None of this makes sense. Less than an hour earlier, I'd been curled on my couch with a half bowl of popcorn, worrying only about which episode to watch next. I never expected to end the night engaged to a billionaire with haunted eyes.
I'd just curled up on the couch to keep watching The Crowned Heart. It had been our thing for weeks; late nights, too much popcorn, arguing over plot twists. Camila should've been beside me, yelling at the screen. Instead, she was at her company gala, chasing deadlines and expectations.
I had just gotten comfortable again, sinking deeper into the cushions, when my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I groaned, not wanting to move. But the buzzing didn't stop, so I dragged myself across the room and flipped the phone over.
Camila.
"Hey," I answered, sounding lazy. "Shouldn't you be bossing waiters or charming investors right now?"
Her voice was breathless. "Elle, please... save me. I left my work jotter at home."
"Your what?" I frowned.
"My jotter! The brown one. All my notes. If my boss notices I don't have it... oh God, I'm finished."
I pressed my forehead to the counter, letting out a groan. "Seriously Cam? I was this close to a Netflix-induced coma, with the couch and everything. And now you want me to risk life and limb for your boss?"
"It's on the table!" she cried. "If you don't bring it soon, I'm finished. You know him. He won't hold back. And you know we need this job. Please, Elle."
That voice; the one that makes me give in everytime; wrapped around my resolve. I glanced back at the couch, at my blanket, at the popcorn. My quiet night was slipping away.
"You owe me for this," I muttered.
"Anything, I swear, just bring it. Please. I'll meet you inside."
I pinched the bridge of my nose but grabbed the notebook anyway. It was thick, leather-bound, and looked way too serious for the man I only knew through Camila's complaints. It wasn't supposed to take long. I was only dropping it off.
I slipped into a short black gown, sandals, and tugged my hair bonnet off, letting my curls fall. I had no energy for more.
When I got there, I hovered by the entrance, calling Camila's phone. One ring. Two. No answer. I kept pacing, gripping her notebook so tight it was damp in my palm. Still nothing.
I almost turned around, I should have turned around. My couch, my popcorn, my peace of mind, all waiting for me. But the music spilling from inside pulled me closer. Just five minutes, I told myself. I'd find Camila, drop it off and leave.
The guard at the door shot me a curious glance before waving me in. I adjusted the strap of my bag, straightened my simple gown, and stepped inside.
The ballroom was vast, and bright. Chandeliers hung like crowns. The Blackwell charity gala always draws New York's most polished and distinguished people, and tonight felt even more sophisticated.
Everywhere I looked, people were wrapped in perfect gowns and sharp suits, their movements polished, their smiles practiced. They belonged here.
And me? I held Camila's silly notebook like proof of why I didn't belong. I scanned the room again for Camila. Nothing. I call her phone. Still, no answer.
The music shifts. People turn toward the front of the ballroom like magnets pulling into place. That is when I saw him. Damian Blackwell. The quiet, controlled billionaire who built an empire out of almost nothing. Most men look powerful from the outside. Damian wears power like a second skin, quiet and heavy, as if it can crush him if he breathes wrong.
He stood near the grand staircase with his popular uncle, Harrison. They spoke in low voices. Then Harrison stepped closer, gripping Damian's arm. His smile was wrong. Sharp. Calculated.
Damian pulled back and Harrison followed. The tension between them was very heated. Guests pretended not to watch, but they absolutely did.
I took a step back, ready to vanish behind a pillar, when Harrison turned. His gaze landed on me.
He mistakes me for a waitress. I knew it from the way his lip curled.
"You. Come here." He flicked his fingers like he is summoning a pet.
I ignored him. Camila only needs the notebook. I turned to walk away when he gripped my arm.
Cold fingers. Hard grip. His breath smells like expensive wine and old anger.
"I said come here."
Before I could yank my arm free, a voice cuts through the room.
"Let her go."
Damian.
He moved toward us. Each step is sharp, almost violent in its precision. His eyes are locked on Harrison's hand. Conversations became more quiet. A violin note hangs too long in the air.
Harrison released me slowly, pretending he meant no harm. I stepped back, heart pounding.
Damian reached for me. Up close, he wasn't the man from the news, he was unpredictable, all taut energy, like the eye of a coming storm.
His jaw was tight. His breathing unsteady. He looked at me like he was searching for something. Something vital.
Then his hand slides into mine and the ballroom snapped into absolute silence. Cameras turned. Gasps rippled. Yet, his hand stayed locked around mine.
And now, here I am again—his hand still burning against mine—when a man's voice cuts through the fog in my mind.
"Ma'am." He says it once, then firmer. "Ma'am, this way."
I blink, realizing I've been standing there replaying everything in my head. I nod and follow.
We enter the office. The space is large and dark. Shelves of books rise like silent judges. A wide desk sits like a throne at the centre.
"Please, wait here," the man says, gesturing toward a leather chair near the desk.
I sit down, gripping Camila's notebook like a lifeline.If anything happens, at least the book survives. That's something, right?
The door clicks shut and the silence intensifies.
My hands shake. My heart is a fist hammering inside my chest. I replay everything that happened in the ballroom. The grip of Harrison's hand. Damian's voice. The vision that blurred through me. The moment my mouth said yes before my mind caught up.
Another click breaks my thought.
The door opens again.
Damian steps inside.
No applause. No cameras. No forced smile this time.
He closes the door.
The look he gives me is nothing like the one in the ballroom. His eyes are cool and sharp, like he is assessing a threat he cannot quite name.
He takes one step closer.
"Tell me why my uncle had his hand on you."