The Gala Invitation
I used to love dressing up.
Back when life was still soft, and I thought “danger” meant heartbreak or overdue rent, not bullets and betrayal. Back when I was Nia Morgan — alive, naive, and stupid enough to think love could save me.
Now? Dressing up felt like camouflage.
A silk mask over the scars.
I stood in front of the mirror in my apartment, holding up the black dress that Rina had delivered earlier that day. No frills. No glitter. Just a simple off-shoulder piece with a slit high enough to whisper danger and class in the same breath.
It fit like it was made for war.
Because that’s what this gala was.
Not a party.
A battlefield.
My phone buzzed.
Rina: Your ride’s downstairs. Try not to stab anyone before dessert.
I smirked. Typical Rina. She knew me too well.
I grabbed my purse, slipped the flash drive into a hidden pocket, and walked out like I wasn’t heading into the lion’s den dressed like dinner.
The gala was held at The Glasshouse, a five-star rooftop palace dressed up in moonlight and money. I stepped out of the car and into a flood of flashing cameras and murmured names. None of them mine, thank the stars.
“Elise Ward,” I said at the check-in table, handing over my invite.
The hostess smiled like she wasn’t getting paid minimum wage to pretend she cared. “You're seated at Table Seven. Mr. Westwood specifically requested it.”
Of course he did.
I entered the ballroom, and it hit me all at once crystal chandeliers, tuxedos, white wine lies. Every face was a mask. Every conversation a performance.
I slid into character.
Elise. Polite. Reserved. Unknown.
But my eyes were doing recon.
Damien stood near the balcony, deep in conversation with an older man in a navy suit. His father, Julius Westwood — the devil in a Brioni suit. The man who signed my death certificate with a smile.
He hadn’t aged a day.
Still silver-haired, sharp-jawed, smiling like he’d never ordered a hit in his life.
My jaw clenched. My fingers curled.
Not yet.
Not here.
I moved toward Table Seven. Empty, except for one person.
A woman. Blonde. Perfect red lipstick. Diamond necklace that could fund a revolution.
She looked me over once, then smiled like a blade.
“You must be the assistant,” she said. “Elise, was it?”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“I’m Vanessa Monroe. Damien’s fiancée.”
Oh. That Vanessa.
She looked like she’d never worked a day in her life and would fight dirty if anyone ever asked her to.
“I’ve heard… nothing about you,” she added, eyes narrowing slightly.
I smiled politely. “That means I’m doing my job right.”
Her lip twitched. She didn’t like that.
Good.
She leaned in slightly, voice lower now. “Word of advice, Elise? Don’t let ambition get in the way of knowing your place.”
I stared back at her, cold and unblinking.
“Don’t worry,” I said softly. “I buried that part of myself a long time ago.”
She flinched.
Point, me.
An hour in, the speeches began. Damien took the stage. Clean cut. Confident. Eyes sharp.
He was a master at this the perfect billionaire prince. Donating millions to causes while hiding the skeletons his father stacked behind boardroom doors.
I watched him, watched the way his eyes scanned the crowd.
They landed on me.
Just for a moment.
And something shifted in his face.
Not love. Not recognition.
Suspicion.
I looked away first. My hands were sweating. Not from fear from the pressure of being so close to the fire and pretending it didn’t burn.
Then came the real reason I was here.
The server access key.
See, the gala wasn’t just about playing pretty.
The Westwood IT team always left the internal network open during events like this running silent connections for real-time donation tracking, guest monitoring, and media streaming.
Rina told me where to look.
So I excused myself, headed for the back hall, and slipped into a staff-only hallway like I belonged.
Two doors down. Second left. Room marked Server Room Authorized Only.
I pulled out a stolen key card, swiped it, and slipped inside.
The hum of servers greeted me. Cool, dark, and alive.
I plugged in the flash drive and waited. Rina’s program did the rest — data sync, live stream tap, internal logs.
Tick, tick, tick.
Then the screen flickered.
A new folder popped up.
“PROJECT: ARTEMIS”
I clicked it open, and my blood froze.
Photos.
Documents.
Surveillance.
All of them tied to women.
Missing women.
Some of them from Westwood subsidiaries. Others from “charity projects.” All listed as “relocated” or “emergency transfer” status.
It wasn’t trafficking.
It was targeted disappearance.
And someone was keeping score.
One name caught my eye:
JANE DOE #17 – POTENTIAL LIABILITY – CLEARED
I recognized the face.
Her name was Megan Cross. A journalism major.
She disappeared three months after reaching out to me in college, asking questions about Westwood’s overseas projects.
They cleared her.
That meant they killed her.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Shit.
I yanked the drive and killed the terminal.
But as I stepped toward the door, it opened.
And Damien stood there.
For a full second, we just stared at each other.
His eyes scanned the server room, then landed on me. “What are you doing back here?”
Think fast, Nia.
“I got lost looking for the bathroom.”
His eyes narrowed. “With a keycard?”
I held up the one I stole. “They handed this to me at the security desk. Said I might need it.”
He stepped in, shut the door behind him.
“Why are you lying to me?”
I blinked. “I’m not.”
He took a step closer. “You are. I can feel it.”
Another step. “I know lies, Elise. I’ve lived around them my whole life.”
My back hit the cold metal rack behind me.
“I’m not lying,” I whispered.
His face was close now. Too close. Eyes on fire. Searching. Digging. Remembering.
Then he said the one thing I feared most:
“You’re not Elise, are you?”
My throat closed.
And then
BOOM.
A loud pop echoed from the gala room.
Screams followed.
Damien froze. His phone buzzed. He grabbed it.
“What?… What do you mean she collapsed?”
He ran out the door without another word.
I stood there, heart racing, knowing what that meant.
Someone else just dropped.
Which meant my time?
Was running out.