Chapter Two: Gunmetal and Wine
1023 Words
Adaya hated red wine.
Not because it was bitter, but because it reminded her of everything that could go wrong in one night.
Red.
Like the roses Brandon sent before he broke her.
Like the bridesmaid dress Elara wore when she stabbed her in the back.
Like the streak of lipstick smeared across a man who promised he’d never hurt her.
She hadn’t touched a glass since.
But tonight, she held it anyway. Because power demanded poise, and poise required props. The deep burgundy liquid caught the chandelier light above and shimmered like temptation.
Still untouched.
She stood near the terrace of The Rothbury, her back to the endless ballroom where Adelaide’s finest drank and clinked glasses. The gala hummed behind her with laughter, footsteps, flirtation, and business. Every voice was dipped in polish. Every handshake, a veiled negotiation.
She exhaled slowly, watching the faint fog of her breath mist against the glass door.
“You hold it like it offends you,” came a voice, low and unbothered.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to.
Salvatore Blackwood had the kind of presence that arrived before the man did. A silent pressure in the air. A cold draft at your spine. He didn’t ask permission to invade a moment—he simply existed in it.
She turned just slightly, enough to catch him in her peripheral.
“I don’t drink things that stain,” she replied, eyes flicking back to the skyline. “Red leaves a mess.”
“So do people,” he said, stepping closer.
There it was again. That voice—rough velvet. Masculine. Measured. As if he weighed each word before offering it like a loaded weapon.
“You speak like someone who’s made messes before,” she said.
“I’ve made worse. I’ve buried them too.”
Adaya faced him fully now, wine still untouched in her hand, and offered the smallest smirk. “That’s a little dramatic, even for a Blackwood.”
“Is it?” he asked, dark amusement ghosting his lips.
She studied him now, taking in the expensive black suit that looked sewn onto his frame, the glint of a custom Rolex peeking from his cuff, the clean-shaven jawline with just enough bite to suggest danger, and that faint scar near his throat—like a signature forged in flesh. Her gaze lingered there longer than she meant to.
“I don’t recall hearing much about you at the negotiation table,” she said, voice level. “You’re the silent partner?”
“I prefer action to discussion.”
“Sounds like something a man says when he’s used to getting his way.”
“Or when he’s used to taking it.”
Their eyes locked. A silent duel behind civility. And yet beneath it, something unspoken flickered—recognition. Like two broken magnets testing the air between them. Push? Pull?
Before either could speak again, a new interruption arrived.
And with it, the mood fractured.
“Miss Alaster! My goodness, don’t you look radiant tonight.”
It was Rynes. Middle-aged. Broad-smiled. Reeking of overconfidence and expensive cologne. A family friend her father trusted and she… didn’t.
“I was just telling your father we need to find you a husband. You know, before you turn completely cold.”
Adaya’s smile didn’t waver, but her grip on the wine glass tightened.
Salvatore, however, remained still beside her—his posture unreadable, his silence sharp.
“I’m surprised you think I’d trust any man in Adelaide to survive me,” Adaya replied sweetly.
Rynes laughed a little too hard and gave Salvatore a belated glance. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were—uh—entertaining company. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Please do,” Adaya said.
Once he was gone, she felt the tension between her shoulder blades ease. Sal didn’t comment on it. He didn’t have to.
“I’ve never been interested in the local marriage market,” she murmured.
“Neither have I,” he said. “It’s too crowded with liars.”
And for the first time that evening, she felt a crack in her carefully built shell. Not because of what he said—but because he said it like he meant it. Like someone who’d bled for trust. Someone who’d killed for it too.
“Why are you here, Salvatore?” she asked again, softer now. “Really?”
He hesitated. Not long. Just enough.
“You intrigue me.”
She blinked. “Is that supposed to flatter me?”
“No,” he said. “It’s supposed to warn you.”
That was the moment.
The second the mask slipped—not his, but hers.
Because something about his honesty was more disarming than charm. More unsettling than flirtation. And for once, Adaya didn’t know which armor to wear.
The orchestra swelled in the ballroom, and voices behind them grew louder. He glanced toward the exit, then back to her with something unreadable in his eyes.
“I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your night,” he said, voice clipped.
He didn’t wait for her response. He turned and walked away—no lingering glance, no smug exit line. Just clean detachment. Like a ghost that had chosen not to haunt her.
She stood there for a while after he left.
Not thinking. Not breathing. Just… feeling.
Which was dangerous.
---
An hour later, her driver pulled into Willogreen Towers. She stepped out into the quiet night, the Adelaide skyline behind her glowing in shades of blue and gold. Her apartment welcomed her with silence and soft white lights.
No sound. No warmth.
Just the scent of lavender and structure.
She peeled off her dress and stepped into silk lounge pants, tied her hair into a bun, and poured a glass of water.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
> You don’t have to like red wine.
But you’re unforgettable in white.
— S
She stared at the message. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She could block the number. Delete the message.
Instead, she smiled.
And left it there.
Like a spark waiting to burn.
- Writer
