The Met Gala Masquerade

That evening, the grand limestone facade of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was bathed in dramatic emerald and gold floodlights. Hundreds of paparazzi and society reporters lined the red carpet along Fifth Avenue, cameras flashing furiously as Manhattan’s elite arrived for the annual Titanium Masquerade Gala.

Serena stood inside the Great Hall, her breath shallow as she caught her reflection in a towering gilded mirror.

She had spent three hours preparing, refusing to appear like an intimidated auditor. She wore a backless emerald-silk slip gown that hugged every curve of her body like liquid jade, sweeping down to a modest train. Her auburn hair fell in glossy, Hollywood waves over one bare shoulder, and across her eyes sat a delicate filigree mask of black lace and crystals.

A hush rippled through the grand corridor as Damian Blackwood entered the hall.

He wore a bespoke black velvet tuxedo that broadened his already massive frame, a matching black silk mask concealing the upper half of his face. Yet there was no disguising him. The lethal grace of his stride, the aura of untamed power radiating from his silhouette, commanded instant, terrified deference from every hedge-fund manager and senator in the room.

His amber eyes swept across the room, locking onto Serena with the pinpoint precision of a laser.

He walked straight toward her, ignoring three billionaire investors who attempted to greet him. When he reached her side, he didn't offer a polite handshake. He slid his palm possessively around the bare curve of her waist, pulling her flush against his side.

"You look dangerous, Miss Cross," Damian murmured in a low, smoky baritone that sent goosebumps racing down her exposed spine.

"I thought auditors were supposed to be invisible, Mr. Blackwood," Serena replied, her heart leaping against her ribs at the heavy heat of his hand on her bare skin.

"Nothing about you will ever be invisible to me," he rasped softly.

Before she could answer, a sharp, patronizing voice cut through the air.

"Damian, darling! I thought you swore you would never attend this carnival. Papa is still waiting for your answer about the merger of our firms, you know. And about me."

Elena Rossi stepped forward, wearing a blinding crimson gown dripping with diamonds. As the heiress to the Rossi Banking dynasty, Elena looked at Serena with blatant, venomous disdain.

"And who is your little plaything, Damian?" Elena sneered, looking Serena up and down with calculated cruelty. "Did you hire your escort from a discount agency, or is this the girl who cleans your conference rooms?"

Serena’s spine stiffened, her emerald eyes blazing with fury. She prepared to unleash a scathing verbal demolition, but Damian spoke first.

His voice dropped to an icy, arctic chill that caused several nearby socialites to back away in terror.

"Elena," Damian spoke, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal malice. "If you ever speak to Serena Cross in that tone again, I will liquidate the Rossi credit lines at nine o'clock tomorrow morning and leave your family panhandling on Wall Street. Do you understand me?"

Elena turned white as a corpse. "Damian... you wouldn't—"

"Walk away," Damian commanded softly.

Elena fled into the crowd without another word.

Serena turned to Damian, her chest heaving with shock and an overwhelming surge of fierce, forbidden heat. "You didn't have to do that."

Damian looked down at her, his hand sliding up to grip the nape of her neck beneath her auburn hair, his thumb stroking her jawline.

"Nobody touches what is mine, Serena," Damian growled, his voice thick with unbridled possessiveness. "Let's get out of here. Now."

He gripped her hand and led her out through the galleries toward his waiting car.

As they moved through the sculpture court of the Metropolitan Museum, the whispers of the gathered elite formed a venomous, buzzing chorus behind them.

Billionaire hedge-fund manager Julian Sterling—a distant cousin of Sterling Ward—stepped into their path near the Roman sarcophagi, holding a crystal glass of vintage champagne.

"Damian," Julian sneered with a calculating, greasy smile. "I see you brought an auditor to our masquerade. Is Blackwood Sovereign so desperate for clean balance sheets that you have to romance the investigators?"

Damian didn't break stride. He stepped directly into Julian’s personal space, his towering 6'4" frame looming over the older man like an executioner.

"Julian," Damian whispered, his voice dangerously soft, yet carrying an undercurrent of lethal menace that wiped the smile from the man's face instantly. "If you don't step aside in three seconds, I will call the chairman of the London Stock Exchange and disclose the margin calls on your European biotech fund. You have until the count of two."

Julian went pale, stepping backward so quickly he nearly tripped over his own patent-leather shoes.

Damian guided Serena past him without looking back, his hand remaining firmly anchored on her bare waist, his thumb stroking the curve of her hip.

"You really don't care what any of them think, do you?" Serena asked, looking up at his sharp, uncompromising profile as they descended the grand staircase.

"I care about two things in this world, Serena," Damian replied, his hazel eyes locking onto hers with burning intensity. "The empire I built with my bare hands, and the woman walking beside me. The rest of them can drown in their own champagne."

At the foot of the grand staircase, the whispers among Manhattan's financial elite were deafening. Following Damian's ruthless, public humiliation of Elena Rossi, the socialites and hedge-fund titans parted like the Red Sea as Damian guided Serena through the marble galleries toward the Fifth Avenue exit.

Reporters from *Bloomberg* and *Page Six* scrambled forward, their camera flashes casting blinding white halos across the grand staircase.

"Mr. Blackwood! Is Blackwood Sovereign preparing an emergency restructuring?"

"Mr. Blackwood, who is the woman with you?"

Damian didn't break stride. His arm remained locked around Serena's waist, his grip firm and unyielding, anchoring her against the media storm. When a particularly aggressive television correspondent thrust a microphone toward Serena’s face, Damian’s hand shot out, swatting the boom mic aside with contemptuous ease.

"Touch her again," Damian growled in a voice that caused the entire press line to step back in terror, "and I'll buy your broadcasting network by midnight and fire your entire division."

He ushered Serena through the revolving brass doors into the crisp autumn night air, where his midnight-blue Mercedes-Maybach was idling at the curb, its doors held open by Marcus Kane.

Marcus tipped his cap to Serena, his eyes carrying quiet, professional respect. "Good evening, Miss Cross. The route to the highway is clear."

As the doors closed behind them, cutting off the deafening roar of the paparazzi, Serena turned to Damian, her heart pounding in her ears.

"You just declared war on the Rossi family in front of every major banking syndicate in New York," Serena said, her eyes wide with shock.

Damian sat across from her, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket, his amber eyes blazing with reckless, intoxicating confidence. "The Rossis are flies, Serena. Tonight, I made sure everyone in this city knows who you belong to."

As the Maybach pulled away from Fifth Avenue, the flash of the paparazzi cameras illuminated the interior in stark, rapid flashes of white.

Serena rested her head against the buttery leather headrest, taking a long, steadying breath. "Tomorrow morning, the financial press will be in a frenzy, Damian. They'll say I'm an auditor who sold out her professional ethics for a billionaire's limousine."

Damian reached across the console, his large, warm hand covering hers, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin between her knuckles.

"Let them talk, Serena," Damian murmured, his voice rich and steady. "The opinions of sheep have never bothered the wolf. Vanguard will try to recall you from the audit by nine o'clock tomorrow. But before they can file a single paper, my legal team will file twenty-four statutory protections with the federal courts, naming you the court-appointed Special Master of Blackwood Sovereign's forensic review. You won't be an auditor under Vanguard's thumb; you will be the court-sanctioned sovereign over the entire investigation."

Serena looked at him, astonished by the sheer tactical speed of his mind. "You prepared that already?"

"I protect what is mine, Serena," Damian replied softly, his amber eyes burning with fierce conviction. "Always."