Exhibition

With his hand resting possessively on the small of my back, Damon whispered, "Smile," in my ear. "The cameras are observing."

As we entered the Rosewood Hotel's magnificent ballroom, the bright lights of the gala blinded me, so I faked a grin. Before us, the throng broke apart like waves, and everyone's gaze was fixed on Damon Blackwell and his just married wife.

This was our formal premiere, although the media hysteria had been unrelenting since we announced our marriage. An well planned falsehood in a precisely fitted dress.

Damon muttered, his lips grazing the inside of my ear, "You look gorgeous." It made my spine tingle uncontrollably. I detested how quickly he could influence me.

I kept the grin on my face while whispering to myself, "I look like a prop."

His tone was low and humorous as he said, "Props don't steal the spotlight." Mrs. Blackwell, you are the star of the show tonight.

As Damon led the way to the middle of the room, the title weighed heavily on my shoulders. The clicking of cameras blended with the murmur of voices as they followed us. There was a lot of conjecture, jealousy, and intrigue in the air.

Someone whispered, "She's gorgeous."

"Where was she found by him?"

"Definitely another one of his power plays."

I tensed at the comments, but Damon grounded me by tightening his grasp around my waist. With ease, he replied, "Ignore them." "They don't matter."

We came to a halt in front of an elderly guy wearing a fitted suit, his face scarred by years of backroom dealings and power struggles. "Damon," he said, holding out his hand. "You have been concealing things."

Damon said, "Henry," and shook his hand. "Let me introduce Emma, my wife."

The man's piercing, calculating gaze skimmed over me. Mrs. Blackwell, it's a joy. Although Damon has never been a fan of surprises, I have to say that this one is pleasant.

I gave him a courteous smile while feeling the pressure of his scrutiny. "I am grateful, Mr. Whitmore."

"Henry," he said, his eyes frigid but his tone warm. "I hope to see you more often in the future."

Although Damon's countenance remained constant, I could sense a little change in his posture. He responded, "We'll see, Henry," with a hint of edge that I couldn't quite identify.

I leaned in closer as we walked apart. "Who was that?"

He tightened his hold on my waist and remarked curtly, "An old associate." "Avoid getting close to him."

I was about to object, but his tone was so severe that I was cut off. I was uneasy since Damon didn't usually display emotion, but there was a warning flash in his eyes.

The evening continued in a haze of forced grins, champagne glasses, and handshakes. I felt like I was choking on the inside, even though I played the part Damon required me to.

The big surprise didn't come until later in the evening.

A voice cried out, "Mrs. Blackwell," and I stopped dead in my steps.

I looked around and saw a beautiful lady with black hair falling over her shoulders, dressed in a scarlet gown. Something about her chilled me, and her lips curved into a predatory grin.

"Victoria," Damon murmured in a tone that was colder than I had ever heard.

Her gaze was fixed on me, and she disregarded him. "So, the devil has been subdued by you."

"Stamed?" My voice was steadier than I felt as I echoed.

Victoria gave a low, derisive chuckle. "Oh, sweetheart, you must be aware. Damon never takes action without a plan. I'm curious about yours.

Damon shouted quickly, "Enough," and moved to stand between us. "Victoria, now is not the time."

Her eyes shifted to his, and for a split second, I saw something happen between them that I couldn't quite make out.

"Obviously," she said charmingly. But Damon, you can't keep her hidden forever. The truth always surfaces.

Her red robe followed her like blood on granite as she went away.

I tightened my chest and turned to face Damon. "Who was she?"

"No one," he answered too hastily.

"Don't tell me lies," I said, raising my voice. "I deserve to know the players if I'm going to play this role."

His jaw tightened, and I was afraid he may stop talking. Then he let out a sigh and combed through his hair. I used to know a woman named Victoria. She is not significant.

"She appeared significant," I shot back, my anger erupting.

"She's not," he said in a tone that left no room for debate.

The sound of glass shattering broke the tension before I could push any further.

A guy staggered forward, causing his drink to fall upon the immaculate white tablecloths. He mumbled an apology, but I was more interested in the guy behind him than in him.

Whitfield, Marcus.

Across the room, his eyes locked with me, and a slow, ruthless grin appeared on his face.

"Why is he in this place?" My throat was dry as I murmured.

Damon's fingers tightened on my as his face grew serious. "Remain near me."

"What's happening?" Panic swelling in my chest, I demanded.

"Not right now," he answered sharply.

However, it was too late. Marcus was already walking in our direction, his grin becoming bigger every step.

"Damon," he said, his tone brimming with derision. Mrs. Blackwell, too. What a shock.

His pronunciation of my name chilled me to the bone.

"Marcus," muttered Damon calmly, his body tensed next to mine. "You were not listed as a guest."

Marcus said, his eyes glimmering with ill intent, "Oh, I make my own invitations." "Your new wife is quite the spectacle, I must say."

I reacted angrily to his stare, but Damon moved forward to put himself in our way.

"Go," Damon urged in a menacingly low voice.

"Or what?" Marcus smiled unflinchingly and challenged.

I felt as if I was being drawn into the middle of an incomprehensible storm as the tension between them crackled like a live wire.

Marcus eventually murmured, "I'll go," his gaze still fixed on me. "But first, Mrs. Blackwell, let me give you some advice."

With my heart thumping in my ears, I resisted.

"Be cautious about who you put your trust in," he continued, his grin darkening. There is always a cost associated with the devil's deals.

He then turned and left, leaving Damon incensed and me disturbed.

"What was that he meant to say?" My question was hardly audible above a whisper.

Damon remained silent. His eyes were focused on the location where Marcus had vanished, and his mouth was clenched.

"Damon," I demanded, becoming more uneasy.

At last, he faced me, his face inscrutable. "Marcus is not a cause for concern."

"But—"

With a final tone, he murmured, "Enough, Emma." "Leave now."

I couldn't get rid of the impression that Marcus's admonition was more than just words as he escorted me out o

f the ballroom. And for the first time, I questioned if Damon's regulations were intended to keep me in the dark or to protect me.