Chapter 7: The Charity Gala part 1

The world was quick to react.

Within hours, headlines exploded across every major news outlet, digital tabloid, and social media feed, all screaming in capital letters about one thing: Damien Lancaster was married.

"LANCASTER CORPORATION'S CEO DAMIEN LANCASTER IS OFFICIALLY OFF THE MARKET!"

"A SECRET WEDDING? WHO IS THE WOMAN WHO STOLE DAMIEN LANCASTER’S HEART?"

"THE BILLIONAIRE MOGUL'S MARRIAGE STUNS THE BUSINESS WORLD!"

Photos of Damien’s chiseled face paired with blurry shots of Evelyn stepping into a car or standing at a distance beside him began circulating online. The comments ranged from curious to vicious. Women who had positioned themselves for years—daughters of oil tycoons, fashion empresses, models with Ivy League degrees—were blindsided. Their dreams of becoming Mrs. Lancaster evaporated like morning mist.

Speculation grew like wildfire: Was it love? Was it business? Why hadn’t they heard of her? Who was Evelyn Lancaster?

The web spun stories faster than facts could catch up.

By the time their limousine pulled up to the grand arched entrance of the Westmore Hall, the venue of the city’s most prestigious annual charity gala, Evelyn could practically feel the press of a thousand unspoken questions bearing down on her. Not just from the world outside—but from within.

She drew a steadying breath, fingers curled tightly around the smooth leather of her evening clutch.

Beside her, Damien Lancaster sat with effortless ease. His black tuxedo fit like a second skin, shoulders broad, spine straight, the sharp lines of his jaw softened only by the faintest hint of amusement in his piercing blue eyes.

He turned to her. “Nervous?” he asked, voice laced with amusement, as though he already knew the answer.

She met his gaze with a practiced smile. “I don’t get nervous.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Good. Because all eyes will be on you tonight.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but the door was pulled open, and the outside world—buzzing, blinding, feral—swallowed them whole.

The moment their feet touched the red carpet, it was chaos. Flashbulbs exploded in rapid succession. A chorus of reporters' voices overlapped, each one desperate to shout over the others.

“Mr. Lancaster! Is it true you secretly married?”

“Who is she? Is she in the industry?”

“Mrs. Lancaster, how did you meet your husband? Was it love at first sight?”

The weight of the spotlight struck Evelyn like a physical force. Every camera, every breathless stare, every pointed whisper felt like a blade searching for weakness. She had dressed for this—looked the part, prepared for it mentally—but nothing could’ve truly readied her for this baptism by fire.

Damien, ever composed, extended his hand to her. There was the briefest hesitation—half a heartbeat—before Evelyn placed her fingers in his. His palm was warm, grounding. She held on a little tighter than necessary, and he didn’t seem to mind.

The murmurs swelled around them like a tidal wave.

Evelyn could feel the judgment settling on her skin like ash. She knew what they saw—an outsider, a nobody. A woman who hadn’t earned her place in their rarefied world of legacy wealth and social connections.

But she lifted her chin, eyes forward, expression neutral.

She may have entered this world through the back door, but she wasn’t going to let it swallow her whole.

Damien’s hand slid to her waist as they stopped in front of the cameras. A deliberate, possessive gesture. The crowd of elites behind the velvet ropes responded with a noticeable hush.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, voice brushing her ear like silk.

Evelyn smiled, sharp and graceful. “I wasn’t asking for reassurance.”

He smirked. “Of course not. But you liked it anyway.”

She rolled her eyes, just slightly, the moment intimate in a way that almost startled her. And for the first time that night, she felt… steadier.

The ballroom was already filled when they stepped inside—a vision of polished marble, golden chandeliers, and glittering gowns. Music hummed in the background, smooth and orchestral, blending with the murmur of old money and new ambition.

Eyes turned. Conversations paused.

The new Mrs. Lancaster had arrived.

Some guests offered welcoming smiles, too practiced to be sincere. Others exchanged glances behind champagne flutes. And then there were those who didn’t bother to hide their disdain.

Evelyn felt them all.

But only one made her pulse quicken in warning.

Across the room, framed beneath a halo of gold light, stood a woman in an emerald gown—sleek, stunning, and unmistakably furious. Cassandra Sterling.

Daughter of the Sterling legacy. Heiress to an empire of old-money influence. For years, the name Cassandra had been whispered beside Damien’s in speculation. The match had made sense—strategic, powerful, expected.

Instead, Damien had chosen a former secretary with no pedigree, no connections, and no apparent value to the world they lived in.

Cassandra began moving toward them, each step slicing through the crowd like a scalpel. Her gown shimmered with every calculated movement. Her platinum blonde hair was styled in loose waves, green eyes glinting with contempt.

She stopped in front of them, lips curved into a poisonous smile. “Damien,” she said, voice honey-smooth but edged with steel. “You certainly know how to surprise people.”

Damien’s face remained impassive. “Cassandra.”

Her gaze flicked to Evelyn, lingering just long enough to be insulting. “And this must be your… wife.”

She smiled without warmth.

“How delightfully unexpected.”

Evelyn tilted her head, not blinking.

“Surprises make life interesting, don’t you think?”

A faint twitch passed through Cassandra’s expression, a crack in her practiced façade. Before she could deliver her next veiled insult, Damien’s arm tightened around Evelyn’s waist.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he said smoothly, “we have people to greet.”

Cassandra’s jaw tensed. “Of course. Enjoy your evening… Mrs. Lancaster.”

As they turned away, Evelyn could feel Cassandra’s gaze like a dagger in her spine.

“Was she always that charming?” she muttered under her breath.

Damien didn’t miss a beat. “She’s used to being the star of the room.”

“Guess I ruined the script.”

“You certainly did,” he said, almost fondly.

Damien's grip on her waist tightened slightly. "There might be some trouble later."

Evelyn arched a brow. "And what kind of trouble am I dealing with?"

His jaw clenched. "The persistent kind."

That was all he said, but Evelyn had a sinking feeling that Cassandra Sterling wasn't done with

her yet.

They moved through the crowd like royalty—smiles, nods, exchanges with high-powered CEOs and board members who looked at her like she was an anomaly. She played her role with measured grace, answering questions with just the right mix of warmth and distance.

Still, there was a pressure under her skin. A sense that the walls could close in any second. That if she faltered, even slightly, they would devour her.

But Damien didn’t let go of her once. Every time someone’s comment edged too close to cruelty, his presence beside her steadied her like gravity.

It struck her, somewhere between flutes of champagne and another rehearsed smile, that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t the only one performing.

Because sometimes, when he looked at her, it didn’t feel like an act.

Not quite.