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 if he wanted me to feel the inevitability of it. And I did. By the time he stopped just a breath away, I was rooted to the spot, every nerve buzzing.

"Enjoying the gala?" His voice was deeper than I expected, smooth with a hint of something I couldn't place, an accent buried beneath perfect English.

I managed a nod, hoping I didn't look like a startled deer. "It's... overwhelming."

A corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile, it was something sharper, as though he found my honesty refreshing.

"Overwhelming can be good," he said. "It means you are paying attention."

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he stood, how the faint scent of his cologne; cedarwood and something darker curled around me.

"Meera Kapoor," I blurted, as if my name could shield me from the weight of his attention.

"Meera," he repeated, rolling it over his tongue. "Beautiful. I'm Damien."

As though I didn't know. As though his name wasn't etched into every business journal headline, every gossip column. Still, the way he said it, simple, unpretentious, made it feel like a secret he was offering only to me.

Before I could think of a response, a woman brushed past us, offering Damien a smile laced with suggestion. He ignored her completely, eyes never leaving mine.

"Would you like to get some air?" he asked suddenly.

My breath caught. Outside? Alone? I barely knew him. My best friend Sofia's voice screamed in my head: Meera, don't be stupid. Men like him chew women up for breakfast.

But another voice whispered, softer, more dangerous: When will you ever get this chance again?

I found myself nodding.

We slipped out onto the balcony, where London glittered beneath us.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Damien said, resting one hand against the stone balustrade.

"Yes," I breathed. But I wasn't looking at the city. I was looking at him.

There was something about the way he carried himself, like every move was calculated yet effortless. And yet, beneath the polish, I sensed something else, a tension, a weight. As if the mask of charm might slip if I stared long enough.

"Tell me something," he said after a beat. "Do you always look like you're about to run away?"

I blinked. "I...what?"

"That look in your eyes," he said softly, leaning closer. "Half here, half somewhere else. Like you're not sure if you belong."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. How could he see through me so easily?

"I'm not exactly used to... all of this," I admitted.

Instead of laughing, he tilted his head, studying me with something almost like curiosity. "Good. Then maybe you're not like the rest."

The rest. The glittering people inside who hung on his every word.

Before I could ask what he meant, he turned to face me fully, eyes glinting under the city lights.

"Have dinner with me," he said simply.

I stared at him, heart thundering. Dinner? Just like that?

"But..."

"No buts." His voice was gentle but firm, like a command wrapped in velvet. "Say yes."

And for some reason I couldn't explain, I wanted to.

The sounds of the gala spilled faintly through the glass doors behind us, but in that moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to just the two of us, standing on a balcony above London, suspended between sense and temptation.

I drew in a breath, ready to answer and that's when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at it, jaw tightening for a fraction of a second before he slid it away, mask slipping back into place.

His gaze returned to me, sharp, determined.

"So," Damien murmured, "what's it going to be, Meera? Will you have dinner with me?"