Hearth strings and High heels

The night was velvet-black, pierced by the pulse of a hundred flashing cameras. New York's elite strutted down the marbled steps of the Glasshouse Gala, clad in glittering gowns and Armani tuxedos, champagne glasses clinking as fake laughter floated into the cold night air. It was the charity event of the season, a place where the powerful flexed, the rich mingled, and the bored pretended to care about art, orphans, or whatever tonight's cause was.

Calla Rose was not supposed to be here.

Yet here she was.

Wearing a stolen red gown she 'borrowed' from the back of a sketchy showroom uptown, a pair of heels one size too big, and a diamond necklace that was actually cubic zirconia from a pawn shop in Brooklyn. Her copper-red hair, wild and slightly frizzy from running through the wind, glowed under the chandeliers like fire caught mid-dance.

She didn't belong. She knew it. And still, she walked through the crowd like she owned the place, chin up, hips swaying, eyes smirking at every condescending glance thrown her way.

And that was when she saw him.

Damien Rourke.

The man himself.

Black tuxedo. Sculpted jaw. Eyes like winter storms-gray, sharp, and dangerous. Billionaire. Tech mogul. Heartbreaker. Cold-blooded, scandal-drenched, untouchable. He stood near the bar, speaking to someone in a navy suit, his glass of bourbon swirling lazily in his hand.

Calla didn't hesitate.

She walked straight up to him, heels clicking, stole a flute of champagne from a passing tray, and stopped just two feet from him. The man in the navy suit gave her a once-over-shock, then distaste. Damien turned his gaze on her slowly, like a king annoyed by an interruption. Their eyes locked.

She smiled sweetly.

"Darling," she said loud enough for everyone within a ten-foot radius to hear, "You left my apartment in such a hurry this morning, I didn't get to thank you for breaking the bed."

Gasps.

Choked laughter.

Damien's expression didn't change.

The man in navy turned white.

Calla downed the champagne, placed the empty glass on the bar with a perfect clink, and blew a kiss at Damien's stony face. Then she turned on her heel and walked away, heart racing like a rabbit on cocaine.

She'd made it ten steps before security swarmed.

"Ma'am, we need you to come with us."

She didn't resist. Just flashed them a dazzling, defiant smile.

"Sure. Just don't smudge my lipstick."

As they led her through the crowd, whispers bloomed like wildfire.

Who is she? Did he really sleep with her? Is she a model? An escort?

Outside, the cold slapped her cheeks. She shivered but kept her spine straight as the guards walked her toward the gate.

And that's when she saw it.

A black McLaren parked at the curb. Engine purring. Door open. A man inside.

Damien Rourke.

He looked bored. Annoyed. But definitely waiting.