Chapter 24 Falcon Hunts
1099 Words
The dinner gala was never just a party. It was a place where reputations got carved up between courses and deals happened over expensive wine.
Sarah Milton knew exactly how the game worked.
She stood at the edge of the ballroom, calm and unhurried, champagne flute held at that easy angle. Her deep burgundy gown was a smart choice — rich but not flashy, the kind of color that pulled eyes without trying too hard.
Her gaze moved across the room, slow and deliberate.
There he was. Charlie Weston. Senior Executive. Forty-seven, sharp jaw, standing near the marble bar with a glass of single malt in his hand.
Sarah had studied him for weeks. His projects. The ones he killed. The kind of man he was.
She took a slow breath, set her jaw, and started moving. Not straight at him. That would’ve been too obvious.
Instead, she drifted nearby and fell into a light conversation with someone she barely knew. She waited for the room to do the rest.
She felt him notice her before she turned.
When she finally did, her smile looked warm and surprised, like it was pure chance. “Charlie. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
Charlie Weston’s dark eyes settled on her, calm and measuring. “Sarah Milton. I’ve been hearing your name a lot lately.”
“Hopefully for the right reasons,” she said lightly.
“Depends who’s talking.” A faint smile touched his face. He lifted his glass. “You’ve made some enemies. That usually means you’re doing something right.”
Sarah laughed, letting it reach her eyes. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was just an observation.” He studied her for a second. “The Harlow Theatre proposal. That was yours?”
“Mostly mine. I led the concept and the phasing plan.”
“Bold phasing,” Charlie said flatly.
“Honest phasing,” Sarah corrected, voice steady. “The building needs it done right. I wasn’t going to promise something I couldn’t deliver just to make the pitch easier.”
Charlie went quiet, really thinking it over.
Most people would’ve kept talking to fill the space. Sarah didn’t.
“Most people in your spot oversell,” he said finally.
“Most people haven’t thought about what happens after the contract’s signed,” she replied. Her voice dropped, more direct now. “I don’t just want to win the job. I want the building to actually work when it’s done. I think you get the difference.”
Charlie looked at her for a long moment, eyes sharp.
The orchestra shifted into something slower. The light from the chandeliers caught the amber in his glass and the deep red of her wine.
“There’s a conversation worth having,” he said at last. “About the phasing. About what the board really needs to hear.”
“I agree,” Sarah said simply.
Charlie set his glass on a passing tray, decision already made. His eyes met hers again. “There’s a private lounge downstairs. Quieter.
We can actually talk.”
Sarah held his gaze for one steady beat.
Then she set her own flute down, reached over, and took his hand — fingers curling around his with calm confidence.
“Lead the way,” she said.
Charlie turned toward the side corridor that led away from the bright ballroom, away from the noise and the fake smiles.
Sarah walked beside him, steps even and sure.
The lounge was dim. Sarah leaned against the mahogany door, her red dress hiked up her thighs.
Charlie set his glass down. He traced her jawline with a rough finger, his thumb pressing hard against her lower lip, smearing the crimson lipstick. Sarah didn’t flinch. She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze with ice-cold clarity.
"When the big projects come up," she murmured, "I need your vote."
Charlie didn't answer. He grabbed her wrist, yanking her flush against him. Sarah hit his chest with a sharp gasp. His other hand slid down her spine, the heat of his palm searing through the thin velvet before fisting her lower back and lifting her off her feet.
"Let’s see," he breathed into her ear, his voice thick, "if you're worth the seat."
Sarah sank onto the thick rug. Her fingers were trembling, but she worked fast, unbuckling his belt with practiced efficiency. The metallic click snapped through the silence. She looked up at him—no heat, just hunger for leverage.
"Remember this in the boardroom," she whispered, her nails grazing his skin. "Think about it every time you’re tempted to say no."
She went down. Charlie groaned, his hand fisting in her hair, trashing the sleek updo as he pulled her head back. Sarah winced at the tension in her scalp, but he didn't let up, driving her deeper.
Minutes later, he hauled her up and shoved her over the leather armchair. He hiked the velvet to her waist, forcing his knee between her thighs to pry them open.
"You sure about this?" he panted.
Sarah didn't waste words. She gave a sharp, jagged laugh, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him in.
He drove in hard. Sarah gasped, her nails digging into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket. The chair creaked under the weight. Charlie set a punishing pace, one hand tangled in her hair, forcing her to look at her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was flushed, but her eyes remained terrifyingly sharp.
He moved with a raw, brutal rhythm. Sarah pushed back against him, meeting every stroke. Even as her body wound tight, her mind was already calculating the next move.
"Goddamn shark," he hissed.
"Just remember the vote," she shot back, her voice breaking under the impact.
With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and came. Sarah rode the wave, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips.
They stayed locked for a moment, breathing heavy. Charlie stepped back, wordlessly fixing his cuffs. Sarah stood up, smoothed the velvet over her hips, and touched up her lipstick in the mirror.
Charlie handed her a scotch. Sarah clinked her glass against his, the ice rattling.
"I never forget the terms," she said, taking a long swallow.
She walked to the door and glanced back at his disheveled tie.
"Fix your tie," she said, her voice like ice. "I wouldn't want the partners smelling the transaction on you."
She stepped out, the party noise rushing back in. Sarah walked into the crowd with a perfect, steady stride.
- Writer
