Chapter 2 The Masquerade Ball

Two weeks after signing away my freedom, I stood in front of a full-length mirror in what was now my bedroom in Damien's Kensington townhouse. The woman staring back at me was a stranger—hair professionally styled into elegant waves, makeup that had taken an artist an hour to apply, and a gown that cost more than three months of Rossi Estate's operating expenses.

The emerald suits you, Damien said from the doorway, his reflection appearing behind mine like an expensive ghost.

I didn't turn around. I preferred the blue one.

The blue didn't match my tie. He stepped into the room, his movements precise and controlled as always. Tonight is important, Elena. The Whitmore Annual Masquerade is where London's financial elite gather to pretend they care about charity. More importantly, it's where our Middle Eastern investors will be making their first assessment.

Of me, you mean. I finally faced him. Your trophy wife.

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in those cold eyes. Of us. As a couple. As a stable investment.

And what exactly am I supposed to do? Smile? Laugh at boring jokes? Pretend I'm madly in love with a man who included a 'no touching' clause in our marriage contract?

Damien checked his watch—platinum, I'd learned, and worth more than my vineyard's entire irrigation system. We have thirty minutes before the car arrives. Let's practice.

Practice what?

Being a couple. He held out his hand. May I?

Reluctantly, I placed my hand in his. His fingers were surprisingly warm as they closed around mine.

When we enter a room, he instructed, we stay connected. Hand in hand, my arm around your waist, or yours through mine. Never more than a foot apart.

How romantic, I muttered.

It's not about romance. It's about perception. He pulled me closer, his other hand settling at the small of my back. When someone approaches, you smile. Not too wide—you're sophisticated, not desperate.

I know how to behave in society, Damien. I stiffened under his touch. Contrary to what you might think, we do have social gatherings in Tuscany.

Not like this. His voice lowered. These people are sharks. They will watch our every move, analyze every interaction. If they sense anything false about our relationship, my deal falls apart.

And I get sent back to Tuscany with nothing, I finished for him.

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I could swear I saw something like respect in them. Precisely. So let's make sure that doesn't happen.

For the next twenty minutes, Damien drilled me like a military sergeant preparing a recruit for battle. How to stand, how to laugh (softly, never throwing my head back), how to touch his arm when he said something amusing. The proper distance to maintain from other men (considerable). The appropriate topics of conversation (art, travel, charity—never politics or money).

Now, he said finally, when I introduce you, I'll likely kiss your cheek. Don't flinch.

I'm not afraid of you, Damien.

No. Something that might have been amusement crossed his face. That's precisely what makes you interesting.

The car ride to the Whitmore estate was silent. I watched London's lights blur past the window, wondering how I'd ended up here—a vineyard girl playing dress-up in the world of high finance. The weight of the diamond ring on my finger—ostentatious and cold, just like the man who had placed it there—reminded me with every movement.

The Whitmore mansion loomed ahead, a Victorian monstrosity ablaze with lights. Masked figures in evening wear moved up the grand staircase like characters from a bizarre dream. As our car pulled to a stop, Damien turned to me.

Remember, he said, his voice low, tonight we're madly in love.

Despite having known each other for all of three weeks, I added.

Love at first sight. His smile didn't reach his eyes. Surely even a cynic like you can appreciate the romance of that notion.

Before I could respond, the car door opened. Camera flashes exploded around us as Damien emerged and offered me his hand. I took a deep breath and stepped out into the chaos.

Mr. Blackwood! Over here!
Is this your new bride?
When did you meet?
Was it a whirlwind romance?

The questions came from all directions as Damien's arm slipped around my waist, drawing me against his side. His body was rigid, his smile practiced. Gentlemen, ladies, he addressed the press, I'm delighted to introduce my wife, Elena Rossi Blackwood.

I smiled as instructed, feeling like a ventriloquist's dummy. Then Damien turned, and as warned, pressed his lips to my cheek. What I hadn't prepared for was the strange flutter in my stomach at the contact—a reaction that annoyed me intensely.

We moved up the stairs in perfect synchronization, a well-rehearsed dance. You're doing well, he murmured against my ear, his breath warm against my skin. Keep it up.

Inside, the ballroom was a vision from another era. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble floors. Masked figures swirled in time to the music of a live orchestra. And everywhere, eyes turned to watch the newlywed Blackwoods make their entrance.

An older woman in a peacock mask approached immediately, her gaze sharp behind the feathers. Damien, darling. This must be the bride we've heard so little about.

Lady Whitmore. Damien's voice carried a warmth I hadn't heard before. May I introduce my wife, Elena. Elena, my aunt, Lady Whitmore.

Ah, the aunt who insisted Blackwood must marry nobility. I extended my hand. A pleasure to meet you, Lady Whitmore. Your home is stunning.

She assessed me like a horse at auction, her eyes moving from my hair to my shoes. Italian, aren't you? From that little wine family.

The Rossi Estate has been producing award-winning wines for over a century, I replied, keeping my smile fixed. Hardly little.

Hmm. She turned to Damien. The Sheikh is here. He's been asking for you. Both of you.

Damien's fingers tightened on my waist. Thank you, Aunt. We'll find him shortly.

As Lady Whitmore drifted away, Damien steered me toward the dance floor. She doesn't approve of me, I noted.

She doesn't approve of anyone who isn't listed in Burke's Peerage. His hand found mine, positioning us for a waltz. But she'll come around once the Sheikh signs the contract.

Dancing with Damien was like dancing with a machine programmed for perfection—precise, controlled, and utterly without joy. As we moved across the floor, I deliberately stepped on his polished shoe, grinding my heel slightly.

Oops, I said innocently when his eyes narrowed. I'm more used to stomping grapes than dancing waltzes.

Try that again, he murmured against my ear, his voice still pleasant for any observers, and I'll deduct the cost of new shoes from your settlement.

I laughed as if he'd said something delightful, leaning close to whisper back, You're paying me to play a role, Damien. Not to be your doormat.

The music ended, and Damien's mask of civility never slipped as he guided me through the crowd. We stopped to speak with bankers, politicians, celebrities—each conversation a carefully choreographed performance. Damien, the charming financial genius. Me, the adoring new bride. By the third glass of champagne, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

Mr. Blackwood! A reporter with a small recorder appeared before us. James Kent, Financial Times. Your marriage has taken London by surprise. How did you two meet?

Damien's arm tightened around me. Sometimes the best things in life are unexpected.

And you, Mrs. Blackwood? What attracted you to one of London's most eligible bachelors?

All eyes turned to me. Damien's body tensed beside mine, preparing for whatever rehearsed answer I might give. Instead, I decided to go off-script.

Che cosa mi ha attratto? Il suo portafoglio ovviamente. E il fatto che non deve parlare molto quando è occupato a contare i suoi soldi. I smiled sweetly at the confused reporter.

Damien laughed, a surprisingly genuine sound. My wife says she was drawn to my appreciation for Italian culture and tradition. And that she knew I was the one from our first conversation about wine investments.

The reporter nodded, satisfied with this bland answer, and moved on. As soon as he was out of earshot, Damien's smile vanished.

What did you actually say? he demanded quietly.

I said your wallet attracted me. And the fact that you don't have to talk much when you're busy counting your money.

For a moment, I thought he might be angry. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched. Creative. But stick to English when the press is around.

Or what? You'll send me back to Tuscany? I sipped my champagne. Maybe I'd prefer that.

No, you wouldn't. His eyes met mine, suddenly serious. Because you've already spent the money I gave you to save your precious vineyard.

The reminder stung, as he'd intended it to. Before I could respond, a group of men in traditional Middle Eastern attire approached, led by an older gentleman with kind eyes and a regal bearing.

Sheikh Abdullah, Damien said, his demeanor shifting to one of deep respect. It's an honor to see you again.

The honor is mine, Mr. Blackwood. The Sheikh's English was perfect, his handshake firm. And this must be the bride I've heard about. Mashaallah, she is lovely.

I offered my hand. Thank you, Your Excellency. It's a pleasure to meet you.

The Sheikh smiled. I was just telling my sons that Mr. Blackwood has surprised us all. We thought him married only to his work.

Sometimes the right person makes you reconsider your priorities, Damien said smoothly, his hand finding mine.

As the men began discussing business, I excused myself to find the ladies' room. In the quiet hallway, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, exhausted by the constant performance. When I opened them again, I found myself staring at a framed photograph on the wall—a young boy on a horse, perhaps ten years old, with familiar ice-blue eyes.

Damien at his first hunt, said a voice behind me. Lady Whitmore approached, her mask now removed. Before everything fell apart for his family.

What do you mean? I asked, studying the young face that showed more emotion than the man I'd married ever did.

He hasn't told you? She raised an eyebrow. How interesting. Perhaps you should ask him about his father sometime. About why he really married you.

Before I could question her further, Damien appeared at the end of the hallway. Elena, he called, his voice tight. The Sheikh is asking for you.

I rejoined him, tucking my arm through his as we'd practiced. Your aunt seems to think there's something I should know about why you married me.

My aunt, he replied coldly, has always had a flair for drama. The only reason I married you is the one you're already aware of.

But as we rejoined the party, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was much more to Damien Blackwood than the contract between us covered. And somewhere in this house of masks and secrets, the truth was hiding in plain sight.