Chapter 1 A Disastrous First Encounter

# Chapter 1: A Disastrous First Encounter

I never believed in love at first sight. But hatred at first sight? That I could attest to.

The Whitlock Foundation Charity Gala was the last place I wanted to be on a Friday night. But as the newest columnist for The Metropolitan magazine, I didn't have the luxury of choice. My editor had been clear: attend the gala, observe the elite, and produce something "deliciously scathing" for my column by Monday morning.

"Your 'Emotional Entanglements' column is gaining traction, Emery," Charlotte had said, sliding the invitation across her desk. "People love how you dissect relationships with that razor-sharp wit. The Whitlocks are New York royalty—there's bound to be something juicy there."

So there I stood in a borrowed dress that cost more than my monthly rent, nursing a champagne flute and scanning the room for anything remotely interesting. The ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered with chandeliers and wealth, making me feel like an imposter among Manhattan's elite.

"You look like you're plotting someone's murder," a voice observed beside me.

I turned to find Ava, my best friend and the only reason I hadn't fled the event already. As the social events photographer for The Metropolitan, she was in her element.

"Just mentally drafting Monday's column," I replied. "So far I've got 'Rich People Stand Around Drinking Expensive Alcohol While Pretending to Care About Charity.'"

Ava laughed. "Catchy. Though you might want to work on brevity." She nodded toward the center of the room. "That's Victor Whitlock, by the way. The patriarch. Worth about three billion, give or take a yacht."

I followed her gaze to an older gentleman holding court among a circle of admirers. "And the young guy next to him?"

"That," Ava said with a hint of reverence, "is Damon Whitlock. Heir apparent. Harvard Business School. Rumored to be even more ruthless than his father when it comes to business."

I studied him with professional interest. Tall, impeccably dressed in a suit that probably cost as much as my student loans, with dark hair and a jawline that seemed carved from marble. He wasn't smiling at whatever the woman beside him was saying—instead, he looked bored, impatient.

"He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else," I observed.

"Wouldn't you, if you'd been attending these things since birth?" Ava raised her camera. "I need to circulate. Try not to antagonize anyone important before I get back."

I watched her disappear into the crowd before turning my attention back to my champagne. Two more hours, and I could escape to my tiny apartment and swap these painful heels for fuzzy socks.

The next moment changed everything.

A waiter brushed past me, and I stepped backward to avoid him, directly into someone's path. My champagne sloshed over the rim of my glass, landing on what I immediately recognized as an extremely expensive silk tie.

"I'm so sorry," I began, turning around.

And found myself staring into the coldest pair of blue eyes I'd ever seen.

Damon Whitlock.

"Do you make a habit of bathing people in champagne, or am I just special?" His voice was low, controlled, but with an edge that made my spine stiffen.

"It was an accident," I said, reaching for my clutch to find a tissue. "If you'd like, I can—"

"Pay for it?" He raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down in a way that made it clear he knew exactly how much everything I wore was worth—or rather, how little. "Somehow I doubt that."

My cheeks burned. "I was going to say I could help clean it, but never mind. Clearly, your tie is as precious to you as your manners are scarce."

A flash of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by amusement. "And who exactly are you to lecture me on manners?"

"Emery Collins." I extended my hand, more out of defiance than courtesy. "I write for The Metropolitan."

Recognition dawned in his eyes, and not the good kind. "Ah, the emotional gossip columnist. The one who thinks tearing apart people's relationships qualifies as journalism."

My hand dropped back to my side. "It's called social commentary."

"It's called making a living off other people's pain." He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne—something expensive and subtle. "Tell me, Ms. Collins, does it make you feel powerful to reduce complex human emotions to cheap entertainment for your readers?"

The champagne I'd consumed gave me more courage than wisdom. "About as powerful as it must make you feel to run companies you never built, with money you never earned."

The temperature between us seemed to drop ten degrees. Several people nearby had stopped their conversations to listen.

"You know nothing about me," Damon said, his voice dangerously soft.

"I know your type," I countered. "Born with a silver spoon, never worked a real day in your life. You think having money makes you superior, but it just makes you entitled."

A smile spread across his face—the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "And you think having opinions makes you intelligent, but it just makes you loud."

By now, we had an audience. I could see Ava across the room, her camera half-raised, her expression screaming at me to stop.

"I'd rather be loud than a parasite," I hissed.

Damon's laugh was cold. "Says the woman who makes her living by parasitically feeding off other people's lives for her little column." He turned to the growing crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Emery Collins, who writes 'Emotional Entanglements' for The Metropolitan. The woman who called the Senator's marriage 'a transaction as romantic as a parking meter' and suggested that the Harrisons' reconciliation was 'proof that money can't buy happiness, but it can certainly rent it.'"

Heat flooded my face as titters and whispers spread through the crowd. Charlotte would kill me if I got thrown out of this gala.

"At least I create something," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "What do you do besides attend meetings and play golf?"

His eyes narrowed. "If you did any actual research instead of making assumptions, you'd know I've doubled the Whitlock Foundation's charitable donations and launched three sustainable business initiatives in the last year alone." He stepped closer, invading my space. "But that wouldn't make for such a convenient narrative, would it?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words died in my throat as he leaned in, close enough that only I could hear his next words.

"You should be more careful about who you antagonize, Ms. Collins. Your little magazine exists because companies like mine buy advertising space."

"Is that a threat?" I managed.

"It's a fact." He straightened, smoothing down his ruined tie. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to change."

I watched him walk away, my heart hammering in my chest. Only when he disappeared did I realize I'd been holding my breath.

"What was that?" Ava appeared at my side, eyes wide. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you're in a verbal deathmatch with Damon Whitlock?"

"He started it," I muttered, sounding childish even to my own ears.

"Emery, he's one of the most powerful men in New York. His family practically owns half the publishing companies in the city!"

"So I should just let him insult me because he's rich?"

Ava sighed. "No, but maybe pick your battles? Come on, let's get you some water."

I followed her to the bar, still seething. Water wasn't going to wash away the humiliation or the anger. As I sipped the cold liquid, I spotted Victor Whitlock looking in my direction, his expression unreadable.

Great. Now I'd made enemies of the entire Whitlock dynasty.

"I'm going to use the restroom," I told Ava. "I need a minute."

The hallway leading to the restrooms was blessedly quiet. I pushed open the door to the ladies' room, only to find it occupied by two women discussing someone named Callista who was apparently "throwing herself" at some married CEO. I retreated, deciding to wait until they left.

I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes briefly. What a disaster of an evening.

"Hiding, Ms. Collins?"

My eyes snapped open. Damon Whitlock stood before me, his ruined tie replaced with a new one. In the dim light of the hallway, he looked even more imposing.

"Not at all," I said, straightening. "Just taking a break from the fake smiles and small talk."

"Funny, I thought that would be your natural habitat—watching people, judging them, collecting material for your next character assassination."

I crossed my arms. "Is there something you want, Mr. Whitlock? Another chance to publicly humiliate me, perhaps?"

He moved closer, effectively blocking my path back to the ballroom. "I'm curious about something."

"What's that?"

"What makes a woman like you so bitter?" His eyes searched mine. "So quick to assume the worst in people you don't even know?"

"I'm not bitter," I said defensively. "I'm observant."

"No," he countered. "You're wounded. And you think that by wounding others, you'll somehow feel better."

The accuracy of his assessment hit too close to home. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." He placed one hand on the wall beside my head, leaning in. "I know you're talented. I've read your work—not just the gossip column. Your pieces on family dynamics after loss were... insightful."

I blinked in surprise. Those articles had been published years ago, in a literary magazine with a circulation of maybe a thousand.

"You did your homework," I said quietly.

"I always do." His voice dropped lower. "Especially when someone interests me."

The air between us seemed to charge with something dangerous. He was too close, his presence overwhelming my senses.

"And do I interest you, Mr. Whitlock?" The words escaped before I could stop them.

His eyes darkened. "You shouldn't."

"But I do."

He moved even closer, his breath warm against my cheek as he leaned to speak directly into my ear. "You're so sharp, Emery Collins. So determined to cut everyone around you." His lips nearly brushed my skin. "It makes me want to dismantle you myself."

My breath caught in my throat. Before I could respond, he pulled back, his expression unreadable.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening," he said, his voice back to its normal, controlled tone. "I'm sure it will make for an interesting column."

He walked away, leaving me frozen against the wall, my heart racing and my mind in chaos. What had just happened? Was that a threat? A challenge? Or something else entirely?

One thing was certain—my encounter with Damon Whitlock was far from over. And somehow, that thought was both terrifying and thrilling.