Chapter 3 - The Gala of KnivesThe grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a shimmering sea of silk, diamonds, and tailored tuxedos. High-society elite, corrupt politicians, and powerful syndicate heads mixed under the glow of massive crystal chandeliers.
Ava stood near the top of the marble staircase, her hand trembling slightly as she adjusted the strap of her emerald-green silk gown.
The dress was a work of art—tailored specifically for her curves, elegant yet bold, contrasting beautifully with her warm skin and dark hair. Gone was the fraying ponytail and the tired waitress uniform. In her place stood a woman who looked every bit as regal as the manor she now resided in.
Damian stood beside her, clad in a sleek black tuxedo. His posture was imposing, his silver-tipped cane held firmly in his right hand. He looked down at her, his gray eyes lingering on her face longer than necessary.
“You look breathtaking,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear over the ambient hum of the orchestra below.
Ava looked at him, surprised by the genuine warmth in his tone. “I feel like an imposter.”
“You’re not an imposter,” Damian murmured, extending his arm toward her. “You’re the strongest person in this room. Remember that. Half these men built their fortunes on lies and inheritance. You built yours on hard work.”
Ava slipped her arm through his. The touch of his warm, solid frame sent a strange, thrilling warmth through her veins.
As they descended the stairs together, the room fell silent. Cameras flashed frantically from the press pool near the entrance. Whispers spread like wildfire across the ballroom floor.
“Look at them...”
“Is that the girl from the South Side?”
“He actually bought her a ring...”
At the base of the stairs, a tall, gaunt man with slicked-back gray hair and cold, snake-like eyes stepped forward, holding a glass of champagne.
Ava felt Damian’s muscles instantly lock into iron.
“Victor,” Damian said, his voice dropping an octave into pure, lethal silk.
Victor Vance smiled, a cold, ruthless expression that didn't reach his eyes. He looked Ava up and down with terrifying scrutiny.
“Damian,” Victor said smoothly. “Congratulations. The whole city is talking about your extraordinary good fortune. Surviving three gunshot wounds... and finding love in an emergency room. It reads like a cheap romance novel.”
“Some people are blessed with good timing, Victor,” Damian replied, stepping slightly in front of Ava, a subtle protective movement. “And some people are cursed with poor aim.”
Victor’s eyes flashed with a flicker of rage before his fake smile returned. He turned his attention directly to Ava.
“And you, my dear,” Victor said, reaching out to take her hand. “Miss Mercer, isn't it? A diner waitress turned billionaire’s bride. Tell me... how does it feel to trade grease and cold coffee for marble floors and Vale money?”
Ava didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, looked Victor dead in the eye, and smiled with radiant confidence.
“It feels wonderful, Mr. Vance,” Ava said clearly, her voice echoing enough for nearby reporters to hear. “Especially knowing that no matter how much grease was on my hands at the diner, none of it was covered in blood. Unlike some of the gentlemen in this room.”
A sudden hush fell over the surrounding crowd.
Victor’s smile completely vanished. His grip on her fingers tightened slightly, a subtle threat. “A sharp tongue for a girl from the South Side.”
“She’s under my protection, Victor,” Damian warned, stepping directly between them and breaking Victor’s grip on Ava’s hand. “Touch her again, or speak to her in that tone, and I won't wait for a legal pretext to tear your logistics empire apart piece by piece.”
Victor stared at Damian, the air between them thick with pure malice. He slowly raised his champagne glass in a mock toast.
“Enjoy your celebration, Damian,” Victor whispered sinisterly. “Formality only lasts so long. Contracts end. And blood... well, blood spills easily.”
Victor turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Ava let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked up at Damian, whose face was rigid with fury.
“You held your ground,” Damian said, looking down at her with a look of profound respect. “That was impressive.”
“I’ve dealt with angry customers sending back cold eggs for five years, Damian,” Ava said, offering a small, weak smile. “A mobster in a expensive suit isn't that much different.”
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Damian laughed—a rich, genuine sound that shocked Marcus, who was standing nearby. It was a sound Damian hadn't made in years.
“Come,” Damian said, offering her his arm again, his gray eyes softening as he looked at her. “Let’s dance before my enemies realize I’m actually enjoying myself.”
