I CAME FOR BUSINESS, SHE CAME FOR LOVE

CHAPTER TWO

The ballroom of the Savoy was a cathedral of gold leaf and champagne. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low, confident roar of people who never had to check their bank balances.

Marcus moved through the crowd like a predator in a flock of peacocks. He didn't drink. He needed his mind sharp, every sense tuned to the frequency of power. He held a glass of sparkling water with a twist of lime, looking every bit the young executive on the rise.

He saw her near the ice sculpture in the center of the room. Diane Ashworth.

She was thirty-eight, though she possessed an agelessness that came from perfect posture and a life lived in the sun. She wore a gown of midnight blue silk that shifted like water as she moved. She wasn't the loudest person in the room, but she was the center of it. Every few minutes, a man in a tuxedo would approach her, laughing too loudly, trying too hard. She would smile a polite, professional baring of teeth and move on.

Marcus watched her for twenty minutes. He watched how she handled a drink. How she scanned the room. She wasn't looking for a lover. She was looking for a reason to stay.

He stepped into her path as she turned away from a bore in a velvet jacket.

"The real estate market in Docklands is a bubble, Ms. Ashworth. I imagine you’re already divesting."

Diane stopped. She looked him up and down not with lust, but with the sharp, appraising eye of a jeweler looking at a stone.

"Most people start with a 'hello' or a compliment on the dress," she said. Her voice was a rich, smoky alto.

"The dress is perfect, but it’s an asset that depreciates the moment you leave the room," Marcus said, his voice steady. "The Docklands bubble, however, is going to cost your REIT approximately four percent of its annual yield if you don't move by Q3."

Diane tilted her head. "And who are you? A junior analyst from Goldman trying to make a name for himself?"

"My name is Marcus Vane. And I don't work for Goldman. I work for myself."

It was a lie, but a prophetic one.

Diane took a sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving his. "You're very direct, Mr. Vane. And very young. Why should I care about your opinion on my portfolio?"

"Because everyone else in this room is trying to tell you how beautiful you are so they can feel closer to your light," Marcus said. "I'm the only one telling you that your light is currently being filtered through a bad investment. Which do you find more useful?"

For the first time that night, Diane’s smile reached her eyes. It wasn't a warm smile it was a challenge.

"Directness is a rare currency," she said. "But it has to be backed by something. Tell me, Mr. Vane, if I sell Docklands, where does the capital go?"

Marcus didn't blink. He spent the next ten minutes outlining a theoretical move into logistics hubs in the Midlands, citing infrastructure bills that hadn't even passed the second reading in Parliament yet. He spoke with a cold, terrifying clarity.

Diane listened. Truly listened. She forgot to look for the exit.

"You're not here for the party, are you?" she asked when he paused.

"I'm here for business," Marcus said. "I've always found that more honest than the alternative."

Diane reached into her clutch and pulled out a small, cream-colored card. "Call my office on Monday. Eleven a.m. Don't be late. I don't like people who waste my time, Marcus."

"I'm the last person who would ever waste your time, Diane."

As she walked away, Marcus felt the cardboard in his shoe. It was damp again. But as he watched her move through the crowd, he knew he would never have to wear a charity-shop suit again.