Chapter 2

Damian cared about his image more than anything else.

He'd brought me to this gala specifically to show me off. He hadn't anticipated being embarrassed.

He knocked back an entire glass of whiskey without looking at anyone.

I kept my voice level.

"My monthly income is two hundred thousand. Damian's is thirty thousand." I looked at the colleague. "Tell me again — who's the one being kept?"

The man with glasses across the table snickered.

"Two hundred grand a month? That's quite a 'specialty,' sis-in-law."

"Damian's the real winner here," someone else chimed in. "Most men burn through cash dating — he found one where a whole rotation of benefactors fund his lifestyle. Ha!"

"Enough."

Damian slammed his fist into the glasses-man's face, shattering his frames.

I felt nothing. I knew he wasn't defending me. His ego had simply taken a hit.

The man with broken glasses clenched his fist, ready to retaliate — but at that precise moment, the emcee's voice boomed from the stage, spotlight swinging to our table.

"Next up — table five! We need everyone from table five!"

The whole room turned to look. The glasses-man uncurled his fist and swallowed his anger. For now.

The game was simple. Each person at the table shared one moment from work that had moved them. The person who told the best story won their choice of a prize.

The first few stories were unremarkable. A boss who remembered someone's coffee order. A client who said "thank you" for once.

When it was Stella's turn, she slid her eyes to me — a quick, deliberate glance — and smiled.

"Last month, I drank too much at a client dinner." Her voice was soft, confessional. "I called Damian at two in the morning."

"He was on a business trip, but he came straight back. Looked after me the whole night..." She paused. "Later, I found out his girlfriend had been trying to reach him that same night."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the tables.

"That's Damian — always puts people first."

"Dependable when it counts."

The applause swallowed me whole. I sat completely still, as though the chair beneath me had turned to ice.

That night, I'd been in a car accident.

My phone shattered on impact. The only number I had memorized was Damian's.

He answered in one ring, told me he was traveling, and went unreachable.

I nearly died that night.

After I was discharged, Damian knelt at my hospital bed and beat his own face with his palms, over and over.

"Aria, I was only working so hard because I wanted to marry you — I wanted to give you everything. I swear I didn't know it would be that bad."

I looked at him now. He wouldn't meet my eyes. His jaw was locked tight.

The emcee declared Stella the winner. She was invited to choose a prize.

She scanned the table of options and spotted a luxury med-spa VIP card. She gasped in theatrical delight.

"Damian ignored his girlfriend for me that night — she's the one who loves going under the knife. Consider this my apology to her!" She laughed.

Then she turned, and her gaze found me in the crowd. Her voice climbed two registers.

"Actually — she's here! She's at the gala tonight! She's right there!"

The spotlight operator followed her pointing finger and flooded me in white light.

Voices erupted.

"She's had work done? She looks so natural."

"That kind of result must cost a fortune."

Stella grabbed the microphone from the emcee.

"Don't worry about the cost, everyone — she pulls in two hundred thousand a month." She let the smile hang on her face, loaded with implication.

A wave of knowing sounds rolled through the room. Men began looking at me the way they'd look at something for sale.

I fixed my gaze on Stella, my voice quiet and precise.

"Spreading rumors without evidence is dangerous. Some statements carry consequences."

She hummed dismissively and pulled out her phone. She held it up so the whole room could see.

"I'm not spreading rumors."

On screen: a before-and-after photo from a plastic surgery clinic.

The "after" image — the successful result — was my face.