PRICE OF LOVE

The Meridian Hotel’s grand ballroom glittered like a stage set for royalty.

Golden light spilled from crystal chandeliers, washing over sequined gowns and sharp tuxedos. Glasses clinked, laughter rose, and the air buzzed with power.

And there I stood—present but unseen.

My black cocktail dress was not chosen for beauty, but camouflage. Blending in was the only way to survive. It was the way Nicolas wanted me.

For six years, I had perfected the art of vanishing while standing in plain sight.

The music dimmed, and the chatter quieted as Nicolas Blackwood stepped onto the stage.

Even now, after everything he’d done, my chest betrayed me with that small, traitorous flutter. He was impossible to ignore.

Broad shoulders filled his tuxedo like it had been sewn onto him, his dark hair swept back with precision, his jaw cut like glass.

Once, I had loved him so deeply it had consumed me. Now, I loved nothing about him except the memory of who he used to be.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey, filling the hall. “Thank you for joining us tonight to celebrate Blackwood Enterprises’ most successful quarter yet.”

Applause thundered.

I clapped, my hands moving on instinct, my eyes locked on his face. I knew that face too well.

I had memorized it for six years, searching for even the faintest shadow of the boy I’d loved.

And then—like a knife—he turned the moment.

“However,” he said, his words slicing through the room, “there is something far more meaningful to announce tonight.”

He extended his hand. From the edge of the stage, she appeared. Camellia Winters. Draped in pale blue silk, her smile blinding, her every movement calculated perfection.

The ground tilted under me.

“I am honored,” Nicolas declared, “to announce my engagement to the incomparable Camellia Winters.”

The ballroom erupted in cheers. Glasses lifted. Congratulations rang out. My hands hung useless in the air, mid-clap, frozen.

Through the blur of my vision, Nicolas’s gaze found me in the crowd. He looked straight at me—deliberate, merciless. His lips curved into the faintest smile.

It wasn’t an announcement. It was a weapon. And I was the target.

The diamond ring on Camellia’s finger caught the chandelier light, a blinding spark. I recognized it instantly—the cut, the style.

The ring I had once dreamed of, whispered about with Nicolas under the summer stars when we were young and foolish enough to believe we had forever.

Someone shouted for a toast. Champagne flutes were raised around me. My own glass trembled in my grip, the stem nearly slipping from my sweaty fingers. The champagne burned as I forced it down, bitter and sharp against the lump lodged in my throat.

For the cameras, Nicolas bent to kiss his fiancée’s cheek. He looked every inch the perfect man. The crowd adored him. No one saw the knife twisting inside me.

By the time the night thinned to coats and chauffeurs, I was numb. Until a hand closed around my elbow with that familiar grip—firm, controlled, unmistakable.

“Service corridor. Now.”

My stomach dropped.

I followed him through the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and hiss of steam fading as we slipped into a quiet back hallway. My heels clicked against polished concrete, echoing my quickening heartbeat.

When we were finally alone, Nicolas turned. No smile. No warmth. Just the cold precision I had come to dread.

He handed me a leather portfolio.

I stared at it. “What is this?”

“Engagement party details,” he said flatly. “Venues, caterers, accommodations. Everything Camellia will need. She prefers spring flowers—peonies, specifically. The color scheme must flatter her complexion.”

The words hit harder than any slap.

My chest hollowed out, but I managed to breathe: “You want me to plan your engagement party?”

His mouth curved—not kindly, not cruelly. Just enough to let me know he enjoyed watching me break. “It’s your job, isn’t it? Unless you’re tendering your resignation.”

The trap was obvious, and still, I stepped straight into it. Because we both knew I couldn’t leave.

Because I owed him. So much.

“I’ll take care of it,” I whispered, clutching the portfolio like a shield.

"Good." He checked his watch. "My office. One hour. Don't be late."

As he walked away, leaving me alone in the service corridor, I knew with terrifying certainty that the worst was yet to come.

Six years of torment had taught me to recognize the calm before Nicolas's storms—and tonight, a hurricane was brewing.