Chapter 3 A Stranger in a Black Gown

The ballroom of the Grand Plaza was suffocatingly warm. Damian stood near the bar, tugging at the collar of his tuxedo. It was an older suit—one of the few things he had managed to salvage from the mansion before the bank changed the locks—and it felt too tight. He held a glass of scotch he hadn't drunk from, mostly using it as a prop to keep people from talking to him.  Three years ago, he would have been the center of this room. Now, he was just another vulture hoping for a scrap. He checked his watch. He had five minutes to figure out how to beg the CEO of Aethelgard for a loan extension before he was thrown out by security. The string quartet stopped playing. The sudden silence was jarring. Damian looked up, following the gaze of the hundred or so people in the room. They were all looking at the grand, sweeping staircase at the far end of the hall. A woman was descending the stairs.  She wore a black silk gown that clung to her frame, a stark contrast to the pale skin of her bare shoulders. A heavy sapphire necklace caught the light, but it was her expression that made the room go quiet. She didn't look nervous. She looked bored.  Damian’s glass slipped from his hand. It didn't shatter—it hit the thick carpet with a dull thud, spilling expensive scotch over his shoes. He didn't look down. He couldn't breathe. It was Elena. He blinked, trying to reconcile the woman on the stairs with the wife he had thrown out three years ago. That Elena had been quiet. She wore simple clothes, kept her head down, and always had a nervous look in her eyes.  This woman looked like she owned the building. Her hair was swept up, exposing the sharp line of her jaw. Her eyes were cool, scanning the crowd with a practiced, detached politeness.  *Elena is the CEO of Aethelgard.* The realization hit him in the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. She hadn't just survived without him. She had built an empire and bought his debt. He didn't think. He just moved.  He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the annoyed murmurs of the elite. He reached the bottom of the stairs just as she stepped off the last stair. He grabbed her elbow.  "Elena," he said. His voice cracked. It sounded pathetic.  Elena stopped. She looked down at his hand on her arm, then slowly raised her eyes to his face. There was no anger in her expression. No hurt. Just a blank, polite confusion.  "I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was smooth, carrying a hint of a polished, corporate accent. "Do I know you?" Damian felt like he'd been slapped. "It's me. It's Damian." "Ah." She gently pulled her arm from his grip. "Mr. Blackwood. My apologies. You look... different." "I need to talk to you," Damian said, his words tumbling out too fast. "About Aethelgard. About the debt. I didn't know it was you. If I had known—" "You would have what?" Elena interrupted. She tilted her head slightly. "Asked for a discount? For old times' sake?" "Elena, please. Just give me five minutes." "I'm afraid five minutes is a luxury you can no longer afford, Mr. Blackwood." A shadow fell over them. A tall man in a charcoal suit stepped smoothly to Elena's side. He had the easy, relaxed posture of someone who had never worried about money a day in his life. He placed a hand on Elena's lower back. It wasn't aggressive, but it was possessive. "Everything alright, El?" the man asked. His voice was low and warm, but his eyes were cold as he looked at Damian. "Just a misunderstanding, Julian," Elena said, offering the man a small smile. "Mr. Blackwood was just leaving." Julian. The VP. The rumors. Damian’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He wanted to punch the man, to rip his hand off Elena’s back. But he had no right to be jealous. He had given up that right three years ago. Before Damian could argue, Julian turned and gestured toward the side of the room. A nanny stepped out from the crowd. She was holding the hand of a small boy. He was wearing a tiny, three-piece suit and rubbing his eyes, clearly tired.  "Mommy," the boy whined, pulling away from the nanny. "I want to go home." Damian froze. The room tilted.  The boy ran toward them. He ran right past Damian, completely ignoring him, and grabbed Julian’s leg.  "Daddy," the boy said, reaching his arms up. "Up." Julian chuckled and bent down, scooping the boy into his arms. He settled the child on his hip, a picture of perfect, doting fatherhood.  Damian couldn't breathe. He stared at the boy. At the dark hair. At the shape of his nose.  And then the boy turned his head, resting his cheek on Julian’s shoulder.  There, right below his right ear, was a small, red, crescent-shaped birthmark.  Damian had the exact same mark. He had stared at it in the mirror his whole life. His vision blurred. He gripped the edge of a nearby table to keep from falling over.  *Elena was pregnant.* The words echoed in his skull, loud and damning. She had been pregnant when he threw her out. She had given birth alone. And now, his son—*his son*—was calling another man Daddy. Damian looked up at Elena. His face was ashen, his eyes wide and pleading. "Elena... you were pregnant?" The polite, corporate mask on Elena’s face finally cracked. A flash of pure, undisguised hatred burned in her eyes. It was there for only a second before it was locked away again, but it was enough to make Damian take a step back. She stepped between Damian and the child.  "He is my son," Elena said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried in the sudden hush of the ballroom. "And as far as he, and the law, are concerned... you are nobody." She turned her back on him.  "Julian," she said, her voice perfectly steady. "Have security escort Mr. Blackwood out. He's overstaying his welcome." Julian signaled to two large men in dark suits. They appeared instantly, grabbing Damian by the arms.  "Elena, wait!" Damian shouted as they dragged him backward. "Please, just let me explain!" But she didn't turn around. She walked toward the exit, her heels clicking against the marble, her son tucked safely in the arms of another man. ***