Veronica Dane leaned against the polished edge of the grand staircase, heels clicking softly against the marble floor as the gala carried on around her. From here, she had the perfect vantage—Nicholas Wolfe in the corner, his sharp profile outlined by the sparkling chandeliers, phone pressed to his ear. Every movement, every microexpression, she cataloged and stored like precious intel.
She allowed herself a thin smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. It wasn’t about charm—it was about control. She knew the game, and she knew her opponent. Nicholas Wolfe wasn’t just powerful; he was meticulous, unyielding, and annoyingly stubborn. Yet even he had vulnerabilities, and Veronica intended to find them.
Her moment came when his call ended, and he dropped his phone onto the table, fingers flex
