Chapter 3 - The Gala of Wolves
Four weeks passed.
Life inside the Cross Estate was a strange, gilded surrealism for Elena. She was provided with a personal suite, a private security team led by a towering, soft-spoken guard named Mateo, and access to the estate's vast grounds. True to his word, Damian had already wired a quarter of a million dollars into St. Agnes’s bank account, allowing her head assistant to hire temporary staff and restock their shelves.
However, the charade required public proof.
The annual Syndicate Benevolent Gala was held at the Grand Regency Hotel downtown—a lavish, black-tie event where the city's corrupt elite, politicians, judges, and underworld leaders gathered under the guise of high-society charity. It was the night Damian chose to unveil his "wife" to the world.
In the master dressing room of the estate, Elena stood before a full-length mirror, staring at a woman she barely recognized.
She wore an emerald green silk gown with a daring cowl neck, fitted waist, and a soft train that brushed the carpet. Her dark hair was styled in an elegant updo, with soft tendrils framing her face. Around her neck sat a staggering diamond necklace—a Cross family heirloom worth more than her entire neighborhood.
The door opened, and Damian walked in.
He wore a bespoke black tuxedo that fitted his broad shoulders perfectly. His hair was slicked back, his pale blue eyes striking against his tanned skin. Though he still walked with a faint, guarded stiffness from his healing abdominal wound, he looked every bit the terrifying, majestic king of the city.
He stopped in his tracks the moment his eyes fell upon her.
For a long, motionless second, Damian simply stared. The cold, calculating mob boss disappeared, replaced by a man genuinely struck breathless.
"Is it... too much?" Elena asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious, her fingers touching the diamond necklace. "I'm used to scrubs and rubber clogs, Damian. I feel like an imposter."
Damian walked slowly across the room until he was standing directly behind her. He reached out, his warm hands gently resting on her bare shoulders. In the mirror, their eyes met.
"You look breathtaking, Elena," Damian said, his baritone voice soft and sincere. "You don't look like an imposter. You look like you belong at the top of the world."
Elena’s heart skipped a beat at his words, a flush of warmth spreading across her collarbone. Over the past month, during the quiet late-night hours they spent together in the estate library, she had begun to see beyond the terrifying reputation of Damian Cross. She saw a man burdened by immense responsibility, a man who protected his territory not out of greed, but out of an fierce, ancient sense of duty to the people who depended on him.
"Remember the rules for tonight," Damian murmured, his thumb lightly tracing the line of her collarbone. "Stay by my side. Don't eat or drink anything that isn't poured by Mateo. And no matter what Victor Calloway says to you... do not let him see you flinch."
"I survived three years in an underfunded ER, Damian," Elena said, turning around to face him, a small, confident smirk touching her lips. "A room full of men in suits doesn't scare me."
Damian smiled—a genuine, captivating smile that made Elena’s stomach do a sudden, nervous flip. "That's my girl. Let's go."
The Grand Regency ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and orchestra music. As Damian and Elena stepped through the double doors, the ambient chatter in the room instantly hushed.
Every eye turned toward them.
Damian slid his arm possessively around Elena’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. Elena leaned into him naturally, resting her hand on his crisp tuxedo lapel, playing the devoted, glowing bride with effortless grace.
"Look at them staring," Elena whispered under her breath, maintaining a radiant smile for the photographers.
"Let them stare," Damian murmured back, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her temple that felt entirely too real to be acting. "They're trying to figure out how a beast like me convinced an angel like you to stay."
They navigated the room, accepting congratulations from corrupt councilmen, wealthy donors, and senior syndicate lieutenants. Elena handled herself with poise, speaking intelligently about healthcare initiatives while subtly projecting the quiet, dangerous confidence expected of the Cross matriarch.
Then, the crowd parted.
Victor Calloway walked toward them, holding a glass of scotch. He was dressed in a dark velvet suit, his sneering face framed by manicured graying hair. Behind him stood two heavy-set guards.
"Damian," Victor said, his tone dripping with fake warmth. "And the lovely Mrs. Cross. I must admit... when I saw you in that ratty clinic a month ago, I didn't appreciate your true beauty."
Damian’s grip on Elena’s waist tightened, his posture instantly shifting into lethal dominance. "Watch your tongue, Victor. You're standing in public."
"Oh, of course, of course," Victor chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. He turned his yellowed eyes toward Elena, stepping closer. "Tell me, Mrs. Cross... how is the pregnancy coming along? You look remarkably slim for a woman carrying the future heir to the Cross empire."
The air around them grew tense. Several nearby lieutenants paused, listening in.
Elena didn't hesitate. She took a half-step forward, placing her hand gently over her lower stomach, looking Victor dead in the eye with cool, aristocratic disdain.
"Early stages are delicate, Mr. Calloway," Elena said smoothly, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet circle. "Which is why my husband ensures I am kept far away from stressed environments... and cheap, desperate men who try to make names for themselves by picking fights they can't win."
A collective murmur rippled through the surrounding crowd.
Victor’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked. "You little—"
"Careful, Calloway," Damian interrupted, his voice dropping into a deadly, sub-zero whisper as he stepped between Victor and Elena. "My wife has a sharp tongue. But I have a sharp gun. Step away from us before I forget we're in a ballroom."
Victor glared at them both, his eyes burning with intense, murderous hatred. "Enjoy the night, Cross," he hissed softly, turning on his heel. "Because the higher you climb... the harder you fall."
As Victor vanished into the crowd, Elena let out a long, quiet breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
Damian looked down at her, his eyes filled with absolute admiration and something far deeper—something primal and possessive.
"That was incredible," Damian whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. "You just humiliated the most dangerous man in the West District without lifting a finger."
Elena looked up at him, her dark eyes locking onto his ice-blue gaze. "I told you, Damian. I don't flinch."
Damian stared at her, his hand moving from her waist to gently touch the nape of her neck. For a second, the entire crowded ballroom faded into background noise. The lie they were living felt less like a charade and more like a truth waiting to be claimed.
"Elena..." Damian whispered, his gaze dropping to her lips.
May you like
Before he could finish his sentence, Lucian appeared at Damian’s elbow, his face pale and urgent.
"Boss," Lucian whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "We have a problem. The dock warehouse in Sector 4... it's on fire. Calloway’s men just launched an attack."
