Under Contract

Chapter Ten: Provocation

The gala hit me like a fever dream in designer lighting.

Midtown glittered below the rooftop in smeared ribbons of gold and white, the whole city looking richer from this height, cleaner than it really was. Strings of lights hung overhead in soft loops, jazz drifted through the humid night, and everywhere I looked there were tuxedos, gowns, polished smiles, and champagne flutes catching the light like tiny weapons.

I tugged once at the black dress Anton had effectively ordered me to wear.

Sleek. Fitted. High slit.

He had said appropriate.

I had interpreted that with creative hostility.

The bruise under my eye had faded from violent purple to something easier to hide, though the concealer still sat on my skin like a lie. My heels clicked across the rooftop as I made my way toward the bar, shoulders back, face arranged into something that suggested confidence rather than survival. No keyboard tonight. No fan. No hoodie armor. Just silk, makeup, and the exhausting task of pretending I belonged in a room full of people who smelled like money and smiled like strategy.

Somewhere in this glittering mess was Anton.

And somehow, that knowledge made the night both easier and worse.

I found him near the far side of the terrace speaking with a cluster of men in dark suits who looked as if they had been born discussing acquisitions over scotch. Anton stood among them like he had been built for rooms like this—black tuxedo, white shirt, dark hair tamed back, expression cut into that precise, unreadable shape he wore when he wanted the world to work for its answers.

He looked up.

Caught sight of me.

Paused.

It was subtle. A fraction too long. A single second held tighter than the rest.

Then his face smoothed over again, but I had already seen it.

Good.

Let him deal with that.

I reached the bar just as a familiar male voice cut across the music.

“Cousin.”

Nico Vespucci arrived like trouble in formalwear.

Same family bones as Anton, but warmer around the edges. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, dark suit tailored within an inch of arrogance, and a grin that suggested rules existed mainly to give him material. He clapped Anton on the shoulder, dragging him into a quick half-embrace with the careless ease of someone who had known him long enough to get away with it.

Anton stiffened just slightly.

Interesting.

“Thought you were hiding from me all week,” Nico said. “Your father’s still furious about the startup deal, by the way. Which means I’m personally in favor of it.”

Anton’s voice stayed even. “You came here to be useful, I assume.”

“No,” Nico said. “I came here for free alcohol and family dysfunction.”

That almost made me laugh.

Then Nico saw me.

His smile sharpened into appreciation as he turned fully my way. “Well. Melody Richardson.”

I lifted my chin and kept moving until I stood within the circle. “Still me.”

“Black looks very good on you,” he said. “You may have single-handedly improved this event.”

Several heads nearby shifted with discreet, predatory curiosity.

Of course they did.

I gave him a polite smile sharpened at the edges. “You say that to all the women in range?”

“Only the dangerous ones.”

Anton said nothing.

That should not have bothered me.

It did anyway.

Not because I wanted Anton defending me. Absolutely not. But because there was something maddening about how easily Nico moved through his world, how casually he put a hand on Anton’s shoulder, how obvious it was that he belonged here in ways I still had to fake. They shared history, language, family gravity. Even when Anton looked annoyed, there was familiarity there—something practiced and old and untouchable.

I hated how sharply I noticed it.

Nico glanced between us, amusement building. “So this is the famous founder.”

“She’s here for investors,” Anton said.

His tone was calm, but I knew him well enough now to hear the warning under it.

Nico definitely heard it too, because his grin widened. “Relax. I’m being welcoming.”

“You’re being loud.”

“It’s a talent.”

Then he looked back at me. “Come meet sane people. I promise there are at least three on this roof.”

“I’m still collecting evidence.”

“That sounds like a yes.”

Anton finally stepped away from the cluster of suits and into the space beside me. Not touching. Close enough to shift the balance anyway.

“She’s working,” he said.

Nico lifted a brow. “At a gala?”

“Try to keep up.”

Something about that answer hit low and inconvenient.

Not the words.

The possession in them.

Nico noticed that too. Of course he did. Men like him probably survived on detecting fault lines and pressing straight down on them with polished shoes.

“Well,” he said lazily, “family closes ranks. Don’t forget that.”

The line was aimed at Anton, but his eyes flicked to me for half a beat before he drifted back into the crowd, champagne in hand, leaving the air behind him stirred and faintly poisoned.

For a second, Anton and I stood in silence.

Jazz rolled around us. Laughter rose from somewhere near the far railing. A waiter passed with a silver tray of drinks that looked too beautiful to taste real.

Anton moved closer to the bar and set one hand beside mine.

“Ignore him,” he said.

I picked up a champagne flute mostly to give my hand something to do. “Hard to ignore a man who enters a room like he’s being scored by live music.”

“An unfortunate lifelong condition.”

I took a sip and glanced at him. “He seems very comfortable in your orbit.”

Anton’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that a complaint?”

“It’s an observation.”

“Suspiciously sharp for an observation.”

I turned my head just enough to meet his gaze. “Maybe I’m wondering how many Vespucci men I’m expected to survive in one evening.”

“Only one should be a problem.”

That answer sat between us, warm and dangerous.

I looked away first.

“You say that with a lot of confidence for someone whose cousin just tried to recruit me.”

A faint muscle moved in his jaw. “Nico recruits everyone. It means nothing.”

“Everything in your family seems to mean something.”

He didn’t deny it.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the music around us. I focused on the champagne, on the skyline, on literally anything except how close he was standing or how easy it would have been to turn my head a few inches and end up in trouble.

Before I could decide whether to say something wise or something destructive, Nico reappeared.

Of course he did.

He had somehow acquired fresh champagne and even more audacity.

“Melody,” he said, extending a hand. “Dance with me. You look far too tense for a charity event.”

I stared at his hand.

Then at him.

Then, because I clearly had a self-destructive streak, at Anton.

His expression did not change.

That was almost more dramatic than if it had.

Only his jaw tightened, and his glass paused halfway to his mouth for one brief second before he set it down.

Nico smiled wider, as if he had just received confirmation of a private theory.

“Come on,” he said. “One dance. Save me from donor small talk.”

Part of me wanted to refuse.

Part of me wanted to say yes simply because Anton had gone so still.

Unfortunately, that second part was winning.

“Sure,” I said, placing my hand in Nico’s.

His grip was easy, warm, practiced. He led me toward the dance floor with a confidence that came from a lifetime of expensive rooms and a complete absence of shame. Around us, couples moved under the lights while the band shifted into something slower, smoother, meant for people who knew exactly what to do with hands and proximity.

Nico did.

I was still adapting.

“You really do enjoy dangerous situations,” he murmured as he guided me into the dance.

“I work with Anton every day. This barely qualifies.”

He laughed. “Fair.”

His hand settled at my waist—not inappropriate, just familiar enough to make my body lock for half a second before I forced myself to relax. He noticed, because men like Nico noticed everything, but to his credit he adjusted immediately, giving me just enough space to stop feeling managed.

“You look incredible tonight,” he said.

“I assume that line came pre-loaded.”

“No. That one’s honest.”

I should have brushed it off.

Instead I laughed softly and let the music carry us through a turn.

“Anton giving you hell?” Nico asked.

“Anton gives everyone hell.”

“Yes,” he said. “But some people get a more personalized service.”

I looked at him sharply. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Nico glanced past me toward the bar. “It means my cousin is many things, but subtle isn’t always one of them.”

My pulse kicked harder than the dance justified.

I did not look back immediately.

When I finally did, Anton had moved closer to the edge of the floor. Arms crossed. Face unreadable at a distance, which somehow made his stare worse. He looked carved out of restraint and bad intentions.

Good.

Let him enjoy that.

The song ended sooner than I expected.

Nico released me with exaggerated elegance and bent over my hand in a mock-bow that nearly made me roll my eyes. “Another later?”

“Maybe,” I said.

His grin said he knew “maybe” was often more useful than “yes.”

Then he vanished again into the crowd, leaving me with a pulse still running too fast and an awareness of Anton that was now impossible to ignore.

I smoothed a hand down my dress, reset my face into something competent, and turned toward the investors before I could do something stupid like seek Anton out first.

Work.

That was why I was here.

Near the railing stood Elliot Hargrove, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, one of those tech investors whose name appeared in funding rounds the way storms appeared on radar—expensive and capable of changing everything. I had pitched to one of his firms once and been ignored so thoroughly it had almost become art.

Not tonight.

“Mr. Hargrove,” I said, stepping into his line of sight before hesitation could catch me.

He looked at me, mildly distracted at first, then more closely.

I introduced myself, gave him the clean version of the numbers, then the better version—the one with vision under the metrics and teeth under the optimism. Global events. Frictionless discovery. Better retention after infrastructure upgrades. Expansion potential with the right strategic support.

By the time I finished, his attention was fully mine.

“Impressive,” he said, pulling a card from his jacket. “Send me the full deck tomorrow.”

I took it carefully. “I will.”

“Might be worth a closer look.”

The thrill that moved through me was hot and immediate.

Not because it was done.

Because it wasn’t.

Because it was possibility.

Real, glittering, dangerous possibility.

I turned with the card still in my hand—

And nearly walked into Anton.

He had that talent too.

Materializing at exactly the moment a man became most inconvenient.

His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear it. “Dance well done. Now explain.”

I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“With Nico.”

I stared.

Then I laughed once, purely out of disbelief. “That’s your question? Not the investor card in my hand?”

His eyes flicked to it, then back to me. “I noticed both.”

“Congratulations on your observational skills.”

His hand closed lightly around my elbow before I could step past him, not rough but firm enough to redirect me into a quieter stretch of shadow near the side wall. The city glittered below us, the jazz swelled behind us, and Anton let go only once we were out of easy earshot.

“Nico is off-limits,” he said.

There it was.

No preamble. No polishing.

Just naked command dressed in a tuxedo.

I folded my arms. “That is an insane thing to say to a grown woman.”

“It’s a practical thing to say.”

“Why? Because he’s family?”

“Yes.”

“Because he’s trouble?”

His expression hardened. “Yes.”

I held his gaze. “Or because you didn’t like watching me with him?”

That landed.

I saw it in the brief stillness that followed, the slight darkening of his eyes, the way he seemed to pull every visible reaction back under control by force.

When he answered, his voice was colder. “I need you focused.”

Jealous, then.

Not admitted.

But present.

Interesting.

“Focused?” I repeated. “I just got a card from Elliot Hargrove.”

“I saw.”

“Then maybe let me do my job.”

He stepped closer, enough that the rest of the gala blurred at the edges. “Then do it without letting Nico treat this like entertainment.”

I should have backed down.

I should have taken the sensible path and let the argument die.

Instead I tilted my chin and said, very clearly, “Maybe I like charming men.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth so briefly I could have pretended it hadn’t happened if I didn’t know better by now.

“Do you?”

The question came out low. Rougher than before.

My pulse skipped once, hard.

Before I could answer, Elliot Hargrove turned from the railing and called, “Ms. Richardson—one more question.”

The timing was so perfect it felt almost staged.

Anton’s hand left my arm.

His expression settled back into something cold enough to cut.

“Go,” he said.

It should have sounded like dismissal.

Instead it sounded like a promise of unfinished business.

I stepped around him, heart beating too hard, and forced myself back toward the investor with my face composed and my mind anything but.

Behind me, I could feel Anton watching.

Tomorrow, this would become a fight.

Tonight, it was just heat in formal clothes and a war temporarily delayed by better timing and a silver business card in my hand.

Which, somehow, felt even more dangerous.