Elle's Pov
The gates are already open when I drive in, but the atmosphere is off. The gala is only an hour away, yet everything feels like it's sliding out of control.
Istep out of the cab. The sun hits my eyes as a group of volunteers hurry around with clipboards and crates. A delivery truck blocks half the driveway. Someone complains loudly about missing floral centerpieces and I feel it; the chaos she leaves behind like perfume.
My stomach tightens as I push through the lobby almost running. The staff spot me; some freeze, some straighten, while some step away like I'm radioactive.
"Good morning, ma'am," someone offers, but I lift a hand.
"Where is she?"
No one answers. Which tells me everything. They know. And they're scared.
I walk straight to the banquet hall. Before I even open the doors, I can hear her sharp, dismissive, voice. She is fully in command.
"…I don't care what my daughter approved. Triple the VIP seating. These people are not sitting with the regular guests."
My teeth aches from how tightly I've been grinding them.
I push the doors open.
She stands in the middle of the hall, elegant as always, effortlessly dismantling months of work like she's rearranging furniture in her home. Some staff hover around her, obeying orders they clearly hate.
"Mom," I say.
She smiles like she's delighted to see me. "Finally. You look tired already."
"I wonder why."
She turns to the decorator. "Raise the lights. And these centerpieces... tacky. Remove them."
"Stop," I snap.
Everyone stops moving.
"Put everything on pause," I order, louder this time.
She raises a brow. "You're being dramatic. I'm improving what was... uninspired."
"You're tearing apart months of my hardwork!" I fire back.
She chuckles softly. "It needed improvement."
Heat rises in me. I step closer and lower my voice. "This is my event. Not yours."
"Well. I suppose you don't need maternal guidance anymore. You seem to have it all figured out."
My chest tightens, but I don't take the bait.
"Everyone," I repeat, louder, "take ten minutes."
They rush out like they've been waiting for permission.
Mother's eyes gleam. "You're overreacting."
"And you're leaving," I say, turning away before I explode.
As I turn to leave, the front doors open.
Damian walks in wearing a charcoal suit, steady posture, the low tap of his leather shoes echoing in the hall. He looks composed and calm until his gaze finds me.
My heartbeat trips; traitor. He's annoyingly attractive. Which is inconvenient.
Mother sees it too. "Oh dear. Trouble."
I ignore her. Because Damian Blackwell is crossing the hall toward me, and I don't know how to face him right now.
He stops close enough that I catch the low trace of cedar and smoke in his cologne; subtle, expensive, unmistakably him. For a moment, no one speaks. I can hear voices in the hall, crates rolling over tiles, someone arguing about microphones; everything except my own heartbeat.
"Marielle."
Marielle? Wow. It feels heavy.
"Mr. Blackwell." I answer, trying to match his calm. I don't succeed.
He surveys the hall. "I heard there were complications."
I scoff. "Who told you that? Doesn't matter.
It's not a matter of your concern because I've got it handled."
His gaze shifts past me right to my mom standing a few feets from us.
And I know what's coming.
"And she is?"
"My mom."
His eyebrows lift. "Your mother." A slow inhale. "You didn't think that was worth mentioning."
"Because it wasn't relevant."
His voice rises. "One wrong word or move from her and my company bleeds for it. I can't afford your mistakes right now. Don't you understand?"
"I understand everything," I cut in. "Including what does and doesn't require your alarm."
Okay, he is raising his voice. At me. Fantastic.
I breathe slowly as I try to steady my voice, though my palms are damp and my pulse thumps hard enough to feel in my fingertips. "Like I said, I've got it handled."
It seems like he didn't hear a word of what I just said cause he continues. "Was she the Camila's imaginary 'emergency boyfriend'?"
There it is. He groans as he rubbs his forehead in anger, cursing under his breath. "Motherfuck..."
"Excuse me? What was that?!" Right now, I'm on the edge of explosion. "You know what, I'm moving on from this conversation."
"Of course you're. He gives a low laugh, humorless. "Accountability isn't optional just because you're overwhelmed."
That stings, and he knows it.
He looks at me again and something shifts. His voice lowers; more intimate.
"About last night…"
Every muscle in my body goes tense.
I straighten. "We need to focus on the gala. Last night was a mistake. And it never happend. Right now, all I care about is my guests arriving in less than an hour."
His jaw clenches. Silence.
Then, his voice comes softer: "I can't pretend last night didn't happen. I need to tell you..."
"Well, I can pretend, and I will. See, I already left it behind. You should too."
There's something in his expression; hurt? frustration? Or maybe embrassment?. He nods once, stepping back into professional distance.
"Understood. " he says. "Where do you need me?"
I exhale slowly, grateful for the task distraction.
"Check the presentation screens. I hear they keep glitching. Software or the HDMI, whatever. Just fix it."
He nods and walks off. I watch him go. He looks steady but I notice the slight tremor in his hand. He hides it quickly, but not quickly enough. I don't have time to think about that.
Because Mother glides beside me again, purring like a satisfied cat.
"Well," she murmurs, eyes glued to Damian, "if that is the fiancé, the media can never capture presence properly. The man is gorgeous." She sighs dramatically. "And tall. I wouldn't mind climbing that..."
"Mom!" I choke out.
She laughs, delighted. "Relax. I'm just appreciating the view. He has a presence and admires authority. Age is irrelevant when presence commands… which is why he looked at me first, not you."
"Oh my God," I mutter, walking away.
She follows, heels silent on the floor; silent in a way that feels predatory, slipping up beside me like perfume smoke. "He's not your usual type. Your past choices tended toward softness. This one… is iron. I wonder, did he choose you for your heart… or for your usefulness?"
I whip around. "Leave him out of this."
She stops. Studies me. "Leave him out of this? Darling… the fact that you're protecting him tells me everything."
"Oh, please!" I say waving it off. I don't flinch. I don't blink. I don't give her a damn thing.
"You care for him. Perhaps more than is wise."
Before she can dig deeper, Martha shouts from across the hall: "Miss Elle! Three VIPs arrived early!"
I shut my eyes briefly.
Crisis number seventeen.
I turn away from Mother.
"On it! Bring my dress to the office." I call back to Martha.
But as I stride forward, I almost bump into him again and I can hear him whisper
"Elle... please let's talk."
Too bad. There's no time for that now.