Chapter 3: A Public Display

The charity gala was a monument to wealth and influence, held in the grand ballroom of the Meridian Hotel. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors, while the city's elite mingled in designer gowns and thousand-dollar suits. To any observer, it was a glittering display of philanthropy and high society. To Elara, it felt like stepping into a beautiful nightmare.

"Remember," Damian murmured against her ear as they paused at the ballroom's entrance, "you are here as my companion. Smile when spoken to, speak only when addressed, and never stray from my side."

Elara nodded, not trusting her voice. The gown he'd chosen for her was a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that hugged her curves before flowing to the floor. Her hair was swept into an elegant chignon, diamond earrings—borrowed from his collection—catching the light. She looked every inch the sophisticated companion of a powerful man.

Beneath the designer perfection, however, the pendant lay against her skin like a sleeping serpent. Damian had activated it just before they left the penthouse—a gentle, barely perceptible vibration that served as a constant reminder of her situation. The matching remote was tucked discretely in his jacket pocket, his hand never straying far from it.

"Showtime," he said, offering his arm.

The ballroom buzzed with conversation and the soft clink of champagne glasses. Elara had imagined events like this during her art history classes, had dreamed of attending gallery openings and museum fundraisers as an established artist. The reality was more overwhelming than her fantasies—everywhere she looked, she recognized faces from business magazines and society pages.

"Damian!" A silver-haired man approached them, his smile broad and political. "Good to see you supporting the arts. Very public-spirited of you."

"Councilman Morrison." Damian's handshake was firm, his smile perfectly calibrated. "May I present Elara Vance? Elara, Councilman Morrison sits on the city planning committee."

"A pleasure, Miss Vance." Morrison's gaze lingered appreciatively on her décolletage. "Are you involved in the arts yourself?"

"I—" Elara began, then gasped as the pendant suddenly pulsed stronger against her skin. The sensation was brief but intense enough to steal her breath and send heat flooding through her body.

"She's a patron," Damian answered smoothly, his hand settling possessively on the small of her back. "With excellent taste."

Morrison chuckled, seemingly oblivious to Elara's momentary distress. "Lucky man, Blackwood. Beauty and culture—a rare combination these days."

As the councilman moved away, Elara shot Damian a look of pure fury. He merely smiled, his fingers finding the remote in his pocket.

"Control yourself," he murmured. "We're being watched."

Indeed, she could feel curious gazes following them as they moved through the crowd. She was an unknown quantity on Damian's arm, and the sharks were circling, trying to determine her significance in his life.

The evening became a exercise in exquisite torture. Damian would engage in seemingly innocent conversations about business and politics while his thumb moved across the remote's screen. Sometimes the vibrations were gentle, almost soothing. Other times they were sharp bursts that made her knees weak and her breath catch.

"You're flushed," observed a sharp-featured woman whose diamond necklace probably cost more than most people's houses. "Are you feeling well, dear?"

"Just... warm," Elara managed, grateful when Damian's hand moved away from his pocket and the torment ceased.

"The ballroom can be stifling," Damian agreed, his voice carrying just the right note of concern. "Perhaps some air would help."

But instead of leading her to the terrace, he guided her deeper into the crowd, toward the auction display. The cause tonight was arts education for underprivileged children—a bitter irony that wasn't lost on Elara as she struggled to maintain her composure.

"Magnificent piece," Damian commented, stopping before a small Monet landscape. "The brushwork in the water lilies is exceptional."

Despite everything, Elara found herself drawn into analysis. "The way he captures light on water—it's like he's painting time itself, not just a moment."

"Perceptive." His approval sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest. "You have a good eye."

For a moment, she forgot where she was, forgot what she'd become. Art had always been her escape, her passion, and discussing it felt like breathing after being underwater.

Then the pendant erupted to life at its strongest setting yet.

The sensation was overwhelming, sending shockwaves through her entire body. Her knees buckled, and only Damian's quick reflexes kept her upright. To anyone watching, it looked like a stumble, perhaps from too much champagne.

"Careful," he murmured, his arm around her waist as she fought to control her body's involuntary response. "The floors can be treacherous in heels."

The worst part wasn't the physical sensation—it was her body's betrayal. Heat pooled low in her belly, and she could feel her nipples tighten against the silk of her dress. The vibration seemed to awaken every nerve ending, making her hyperaware of the silk against her skin, of Damian's hand on her waist, of the way his cologne mixed with her own heightened senses.

"Stop," she whispered desperately.

"Not yet." His smile was predatory as he guided her toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. "You're learning beautifully."

An older woman approached them, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Damian, darling! You must introduce me to your companion."

"Mrs. Pemberton," Damian replied smoothly. "Elara Vance. Elara, Mrs. Pemberton chairs the museum board."

Elara tried to focus on the woman's words, something about upcoming exhibitions, but the pendant continued its relentless assault on her composure. Each pulse sent waves of unwanted sensation through her body, making conversation nearly impossible.

"You're quite flushed, dear," Mrs. Pemberton observed with motherly concern. "Perhaps you should sit down?"

"I'm fine," Elara managed, though her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.

Damian's thumb moved again, and the vibration shifted to a different pattern—rhythmic, insistent, designed to push her toward a precipice she desperately didn't want to reach. Not here, not in front of all these people.

"Excuse us," she gasped, breaking away from the conversation and heading blindly toward the ladies' room.

She made it halfway across the ballroom before Damian caught her arm, his grip firm but appearing gentle to any observers.

"Where are you going?" he asked quietly.

"I need a moment. Please."

"No." His voice was steel wrapped in silk. "You don't run from me. Ever."

The remote must have been in his other hand, because the pendant suddenly switched to a setting she hadn't experienced before—gentle but constant, like a heartbeat against her most sensitive areas. It was maddening, building a tension she couldn't release, couldn't escape.

"I can't," she whispered, her composure finally cracking. "Not here. Please, not in front of all these people."

For a moment, something flickered in his pale eyes—surprise, perhaps even concern. But it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.

"You can," he said firmly. "And you will. Because the alternative is far worse."

As if to prove his point, he activated a setting that made her gasp and sway against him. To anyone watching, they looked like lovers sharing an intimate moment. The reality was far more complex and disturbing.

"That's better," he murmured as she clung to his arm, her body trembling with unwanted arousal. "You're learning that fighting me only makes things more difficult."

The evening stretched endlessly ahead of them. More conversations where she had to smile and nod while her body betrayed her. More moments where the line between torment and pleasure blurred beyond recognition. More proof that Damian Blackwood owned her in ways she was only beginning to understand.

And the most terrifying realization of all? Part of her—a growing, traitorous part—was beginning to crave the sensation even as her mind recoiled from it. Her body was learning to anticipate the pulses, to respond with a speed that shamed her.

When he finally deactivated the pendant an hour later, the sudden absence of stimulation left her feeling hollow, almost bereft. The realization hit her like a physical blow—she was becoming addicted to her own torment.

"You did well tonight," Damian said as they prepared to leave, his hand resting possessively on her lower back. "Much better than I expected for your first public performance."

Performance. That's all this was to him—theater for his own amusement.

But as they walked toward the exit, Elara caught her reflection in one of the ballroom's mirrors. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her lips slightly parted. She looked like a woman who'd spent the evening being expertly seduced.

Which, she realized with growing horror, was exactly what had happened. Damian hadn't just tormented her—he'd begun the process of training her body to respond to him, to crave what he offered even as her mind rebelled.

The year ahead suddenly seemed both endless and terrifyingly short. Because at this rate, she wasn't sure how much of herself would remain when it was over.