Mira's POV
If I had to describe the feeling in one word, it would be exposed.
Not because of the cameras or the lights or the way people's eyes followed me wherever I went—that part I was used to. I'd been raised in rooms like this, trained to smile like I meant it, trained to walk like the ground belonged to me.
No, this was different.
This was the feeling of being seen.
I stood beside my parents near the center of the room, my mother gracefully accepting compliments while my father spoke business in a language only the powerful understood. My brothers flanked me like guards, their presence grounding, familiar.
And still, something felt off.
I scanned the room, my gaze sweeping past champagne flutes and glittering gowns, past men in tailored suits and women with smiles sharp enough to cut. Politicians laughed too loudly. CEOs watched too carefully. Everyone was here for something.
Everyone always was.
"Relax," Liam murmured beside me, nudging my arm. "You look like you're about to interrogate the guests."
"I just don't like this," I muttered back.
"You never like this."
"I like things I choose," I said.
Kia chuckled. "You chose to wear that dress."
I rolled my eyes. "Under duress."
Before either of them could respond, my father cleared his throat, the universal signal that he was about to say something important.
"Mira," he said, turning to me. "I want you to be prepared. Damion King is here tonight."
I froze—just for half a second.
I knew the name. Everyone did.
Damion King wasn't just rich; he was untouchable. One of the youngest CEOs to ever dominate international markets. King Industries touched everything—energy, tech, defense, pharmaceuticals. The man had a face made for magazine covers and a reputation made of ice.
I'd seen him on television. Interviews. Panels. He spoke rarely, and when he did, people listened like their lives depended on it.
And every time I saw him, I felt… strange.
"There's something off about him," I blurted before I could stop myself.
My father raised a brow. "Off?"
"I don't know," I said quickly, already regretting it. "Just—intense."
"That's called competence," my mother said dryly. "Try to be polite."
Kia smirked. "Careful, Mira. You sound like you're judging without evidence."
I sighed. "I'm not judging. I'm just—forget it."
I waved it off, annoyed at myself. I didn't believe in first impressions anyway. And I definitely didn't believe in gut feelings. Those were messy. Emotional. Unreliable.
Still… something about Damion King made my skin prickle.
As if summoned by the mention of his name, a shift rippled through the room.
Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… quiet attention redirecting itself.
I felt it before I saw him.
He entered with no entourage, no announcement. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black so sharp it looked carved rather than tailored. His presence didn't demand attention—it absorbed it.
Damion King.
Up close, he was worse.
His face was composed, handsome in a way that felt deliberate rather than effortless. Dark hair, neat but not stiff. Eyes so dark they almost seemed to swallow the light around them.
He looked… controlled.
Too controlled.
My pulse skipped, irritating me.
Get a grip, Mira.
I turned away, focusing instead on my champagne, on the familiar noise of the gala. I refused to let some billionaire with a mysterious aura ruin my night.
Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.
Damion's POV
She noticed me immediately.
Most people didn't—not really. They saw the name first, the reputation. They projected what they wanted onto me: savior, tyrant, genius, monster. Rarely did anyone look.
Mira Ross looked.
She stiffened when her father said my name. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But I saw it.
Interesting.
She was even more striking in person. Not just beautiful—though she was that too—but alive in a way that drew attention without trying. Her movements were natural, unpolished in a room full of practiced grace. Her eyes missed nothing.
A dangerous trait.
I approached at a measured pace, allowing her time to sense me without feeling cornered. Humans responded better when they believed they were in control.
"Mira Ross," I said when I reached her. "It's a pleasure."
She turned—and there it was.
That moment.
Surprise. Caution. Curiosity.
All at once.
"Damion King," she replied, voice steady despite the quickening of her pulse. "My father mentioned you might attend."
"Might?" I smiled faintly. "I'd be offended if this wasn't a certainty."
Her lips twitched before she could stop herself.
Good.
I shook hands with her parents, exchanged polite words, spoke the language they expected from me. Business. Legacy. Mutual respect. But my attention never fully left her.
She watched me like she was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn't agreed to.
"You don't look how I expected," she said suddenly.
Ah.
"And how did you expect?" I asked.
She hesitated. "Colder, I suppose."
I chuckled softly. "That's usually what they say after knowing me longer."
Her brows knit together. "You're admitting that?"
"I don't deny facts."
She studied me, then shrugged. "At least you're honest."
I liked that she didn't soften her words for my sake.
"Honesty is efficient," I said. "And efficiency is something I value."
"So I've heard," she replied. "King Industries doesn't leave room for sentiment."
"Sentiment clouds judgment."
"And yet," she said lightly, "you came to a party."
I met her gaze fully then. "Some things are worth the inconvenience."
Her breath hitched.
Just a fraction.
Careful.
Mira's POV
I didn't trust him.
There. I admitted it.
There was something about the way Damion King spoke—measured, deliberate, like every word had been weighed before being released. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't rudeness.
It was restraint.
And that unsettled me.
Still… I couldn't deny the pull.
Conversation with him felt like standing near a fire. Warm. Dangerous. Impossible to ignore. He listened when I spoke, really listened, his gaze unwavering, unreadable.
"You're not what I expected either," I said.
"Oh?"
"I thought you'd be more… performative."
He smiled. Not wide. Not fake. "I don't perform unless necessary."
"Must be nice."
"It is."
We stood a little too close. I became acutely aware of it—the heat, the scent of something dark and unfamiliar, the way my thoughts kept slipping.
This was ridiculous.
I barely knew him.
And yet…
"So," he said, tilting his head slightly, "do you enjoy these events?"
"No," I said immediately.
He laughed. Actually laughed.
The sound did something strange to my chest.
"I appreciate the honesty," he said. "Most people pretend."
"I'm terrible at pretending."
"I doubt that."
I narrowed my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," he said calmly, "that you've been pretending to enjoy this conversation for at least five minutes."
I opened my mouth to argue—then stopped.
Damn it.
"Fine," I said. "You're… tolerable."
"I'll take it."
We shared a look, something unspoken passing between us.
And for the first time that night, the unease I'd felt about him softened—just slightly.
Maybe I'd been wrong.
Maybe Damion King wasn't as unsettling as I thought.
Behind us, somewhere unseen, a chill brushed my spine.
I ignored it.