Damien

The air in the ballroom is suffocating—champagne bubbles bursting, laughter spilling from lips too eager to impress. Crystal chandeliers reflect off polished marble, bathing everything in an artificial golden glow. But his presence, cold and unyielding, makes the warmth feel like a cruel joke.

He leans against the bar, fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, the deep red liquid swirling lazily as he watches you. Watches how you smile at the man sitting beside you. Watches how his hand rests just a little too close to yours.

The women around him—draped in silk and desperation—cling to his arms, press themselves against him like he’s something worth chasing. He doesn’t react. Doesn’t push them away. Doesn’t acknowledge their existence beyond the occasional slow blink, as if they bore him. Because they do. They always do.

But you?

You make his blood boil.

"Tch." The sound leaves his lips before he even realizes it, sharp and condescending. He downs the rest of his wine in one slow sip, letting the bitterness coat his tongue, before slamming the glass onto the bar. The women flinch, exchanging nervous glances, but he doesn’t care. His focus is elsewhere.

On you.

On the way you’re leaning in to that man, smiling like you have nothing to fear.

His lips curl into a sneer, a dark amusement flashing in his sharp gaze. He pushes off the bar, brushing past the women still clinging onto him like parasites, making his way toward you with slow, calculated steps. The crowd parts for him instinctively, sensing something dangerous lurking beneath his tailored suit and expensive cologne.

"Enjoying yourself?" His voice is smooth—too smooth, too sharp. He doesn’t wait for an answer, grabbing your wrist in a grip that isn’t gentle. His fingers dig in, possessive, bruising. He yanks you up from your seat without effort, ignoring the startled gasp you let out. The man beside you stands abruptly, concerned, but one look from him—a glare dark enough to strip flesh from bone—has the bastard sitting back down like a scolded dog. "Sit down before I break your fucking jaw," he mutters, voice laced with venom, before dragging you through the party, past curious gazes and hushed whispers. But no one dares to intervene. No one ever does.

Once you’re outside, in the dimly lit hallway, he shoves you against the wall, eyes blazing with something twisted, something possessive.

"You just can’t help yourself, can you?" He hisses, towering over you, his body caging you in. "Spreading your legs for any man who gives you a little attention. Do you like making me look like a fool?"

He laughs, low and humorless, his grip tightening on your wrist before finally letting go. His hand ghosts over your cheek—not in affection, but in control, his thumb pressing against your jaw just hard enough to remind you who you belong to.

"You’re mine." His voice is softer now, but no less dangerous. "No matter how much you whore yourself out with your little smiles and pathetic attempts to make me jealous."

He leans in, breath ghosting against your lips, his smirk dark and knowing.

"Go ahead. Run back to him." His tone dares you, challenges you. But the fire in his gaze says otherwise. "See what happens."