The Billionaire's Stolen Identity

Meera's POV

The charity gala had been advertised as a fundraiser for children's hospitals, but everyone knew it was more of a parade, a place where London's elite came to be photographed, to gossip, to trade favors behind champagne flutes. I hadn't expected to find myself there, yet here I was, squeezed into a silk gown my mother had insisted was"appropriate"and balancing on heels that pinched too tightly.

I told myself I belonged. That was the mantra I had whispered ever since I stepped into the lobby: You belong here, Meera Kapoor. You are not just the scholarship girl anymore.

Still, my reflection in the mirrored panels along the wall didn't convince me. My dark hair had been twisted into a careful bun; my lips painted a shade of crimson bolder than I had ever dared. Yet I felt like a girl playing dress-up in someone else's life.

The music swelled, a string quartet's soft interpretation of a pop ballad and I adjusted the glass in my hand, praying I wouldn't spill Prosecco down my gown. My boss, a minor partner at the law firm where I worked, had long since disappeared into the crowd of hedge fund managers and politicians. I was alone, surrounded by jewels, sequins, and the kind of laughter that never quite touched the eyes.

And then I saw him.

Across the room, near the auction display of rare paintings, stood Damien Cross.

Even if I hadn't recognized his face from magazine covers, I would have known it was him. He had that kind of presence, the room shifted toward him, like gravity itself bent at his command. Tall, broad-shouldered, tuxedo cut perfectly to his frame, he carried the easy confidence of a man who knew the world would bend to his will. His jaw was sharp, his hair dark and slightly unruly, like he had better things to do than let a stylist tame it.

But it was his eyes that caught me, eyes that flicked across the room with an intensity that seemed almost out of place in a sea of polite smiles. Calculating. Watching. Waiting.

Damien Cross, the billionaire everyone whispered about.

Some said he was ruthless in business, that his takeover of Cross Enterprises after his father's death had been bloodless only because the blood was metaphorical. Others said he was untouchable, the man who could charm investors in the morning, seduce heiresses by night, and still manage to keep half the press out of his private affairs.

And now, impossibly, his gaze landed on me.

I froze. Surely, he wasn't looking at me. Behind me, perhaps? Some socialites in diamonds? But no, his eyes held steady, as though I was the only person in the room worth noticing.

My heart stuttered in my chest.

I tried to look away, to pretend I was examining the chandeliers or the gilded molding along the ceiling, but before I could, he was already moving toward me.

Each step he took seemed deliberate, slow, as