C11 Eleven

~Bianca's POV~

The chandelier lights shined across the glossy marble floors, painting a soft golden glow over the living room-turned-dining-hall. At the top of the staircase, I stood with my arm threaded through Nathan's. My royal blue silk dress hugged every curve, the fabric whispering elegance and control.

Cameras flashed. The press lined the entrance like vultures in designer suits, hungry for scandal. Below, laughter rose and fell over the clinking of glasses.

Nathan leaned in, his voice smooth with performative affection. "Smile, darling."

I did. Or something close enough.

The MC's voice boomed over the soft classical music. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome tonight's gracious hosts—Nathan and Bianca Hayes!"

Polite applause erupted as we descended the staircase with poised steps—he, the polished businessman; me, the picture-perfect wife. But only one of us knew the truth behind the mask.

The dining table stretched long, dressed in gold-rimmed china, crystal goblets, and silverware so sharply polished it could cut more than steak. A fragrant mix of orchids and roses fell down the center, candles flickering between them like little breaths.

Among the guests, power sat comfortably in tailored suits and couture gowns.

Julius Grant, senator.

Marissa Devereaux, editor-in-chief of The Elite Woman.

Victor Langston, CEO of Langston Motors.

Charlotte Fairchild, a philanthropist with a diamond collar more dazzling than her third husband.

Nathan was in his element, charming each of them with polished laughter and stories rehearsed to perfection.

"…And you won't believe it," Nathan said to Julius, puffing his chest just slightly, "Damien Sinclair reached out for a business partnership. We go way back—high school buddies."

High school… what?

My brows twitched as I turned to him.

That was a rewrite if I'd ever heard one.

Damien Sinclair. The same boy they used to torment? The one Nathan and his pack of wolves humiliated every chance they got? Now that Damien held more power in his little finger than Nathan could buy in a lifetime, he was suddenly a "buddy"?

No wonder my father lied to me about me having cancer.

In some sick way, I was thankful. That lie forced my eyes open. Showed me the rot beneath Nathan's polished exterior.

We approached the table, and Nathan, ever the showman, pulled out my chair with a gentleman's smile. I lowered myself with practiced elegance while internally rolling my eyes into another dimension.

And then… the air shifted.

It was subtle at first. A hush that crept in, threading between conversations. The grand doors opened—and the room inhaled as one.

Damien Sinclair entered like he owned the air. His suit was black, sharply tailored, collar open just enough to hint at the tattoos on his chest. He didn't just walk in. He commanded the space—each step slow and powerful.

His icy blue eyes moved across the crowd with calculated disinterest.

Predatory. Silent. Unshakable.

But it wasn't just him.

On his arm was Elena Hathaway.

She was stunning—tall and graceful, with a figure that rivaled any statue in a gallery. Her ruby-red gown hugged her like it was poured onto her skin. Her blonde hair was twisted into a flawless updo, diamond earrings glinting like secrets in the light.

But beauty wasn't what stopped my breath.

It was recognition.

Elena.

The name Nathan whispered in his sleep once. A soft, aching sound. The same one who planned my death.

And now… here she was. In the flesh. On Damien's arm.

I turned to Nathan. His jaw was tight—so tight I swore I heard a crack.

But he was quick. His mask slid back into place with a polished grin as Damien and Elena approached.

"Damien!" Nathan exclaimed, his voice too bright as he extended a hand. "This means a lot, man. Really."

Damien took his hand without looking at him.

His eyes?

They found mine. Locked on me like a secret shared across a crowded room.

And then he smirked—small, barely there, but devastating all the same.

He knew.

Dinner began, but my appetite vanished.

Cecilia, sitting to Nathan's left, chirped over her soup, "I remember you, Mr. Sinclair. My son used to talk about you! Nathan always said you two were thick as thieves."

Nathan shot her a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

I glanced at Damien, expecting a scoff. Instead, he turned to Nathan and said smoothly, "Yeah. We were close. Good memories."

The table chuckled. Nathan let out a breath like someone spared from execution. Then he turned to Elena, voice tight. "Elena Hathaway. Wow. Been years. How have you been?"

He didn't really look at her.

But Damien looked at me. Watched me. Observed like a surgeon studying where to cut.

Lifting my wine glass to my lips, I needed something to keep me steady. The bitterness of the red barely registered.

I couldn't stay.

The walls were closing in, and the tension between the four of us was too tight, too loud beneath the laughter.

"I'll be right back," I said, standing. "Bathroom."

I half-expected someone to stop me. Nathan. A nosy guest. Anyone.

No one did.

No one dared question the perfect wife.

Moving fast, my heels tapped against the polished floor as I climbed the stairs and took the hallway left. The soft murmur of voices faded behind me.

At the guest bathroom door, I reached for the handle, needing just a moment—just air.

But the second I pushed it open, the door slammed shut behind me. A hand. A body.

I was shoved back against the cold marble wall, breath stolen, heart leaping to my throat. Heat pressed into me— a chest. And most definitely a presence.

Not Nathan.

No.

Damien.

His eyes burned inches from mine. "Running already, little Bianca?"