Chapter 3: Power Plays
1068 Words
The penthouse was a battlefield, and Iva was armed with defiance. For days, she’d endured Harris Malcom’s domineering oversight, his green eyes tracking her every move as she sketched designs for his Mayfair fortress. Their clashes were relentless, her vision of warm textures against his demand for stark minimalism but the heat in his gaze was harder to ignore. The hidden camera feed she’d uncovered yesterday gnawed at her, as did the locket in her pocket, its photo of Harris, Damian Cole, and Clara haunting her thoughts. Who was watching her? And what connected Harris to his supposed rival?
Tonight, they worked late, the London skyline glittering beyond the penthouse’s glass walls. Harris loomed over her sketches on the marble counter, his muscular frame casting a shadow. His rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms corded with strength, and the faint scent of sandalwood cologne made Iva’s pulse quicken despite herself.
“This library nook,” he said, tapping her sketch with a finger, his voice a low growl. “It’s impractical. I need a workspace, not a cozy corner.”
Iva bristled, leaning closer to meet his challenge. “You need a space that doesn’t feel like a prison. Unless you enjoy living like a robot.”
His lips twitched, that infuriating smirk sparking both anger and a traitorous heat in her core. “You think you know what I need, Iva?” Her name was a deliberate caress, his eyes dropping to her lips, lingering.
“I know this place is soulless,” she shot back, holding his gaze. “And I’m not here to stroke your ego.”
He stepped closer, the space between them electric, his dominance palpable. “Careful. You’re playing with fire.”
“Then stop breathing down my neck,” she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. His proximity was a challenge, his heat a distraction she couldn’t afford. The memory of the camera feed flashed in her mind someone was watching, and Harris was at the center of it.
Before he could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening. “We’ll finish this later,” he said, stepping back. “Be at the charity ball tomorrow night. Black tie. Don’t be late.”
Iva arched a brow. “Is that an invitation or an order?”
“Both,” he said, his smirk returning. “Prove you can keep up.”
She watched him stride away, her heart pounding. The ball was a chance to dig deeper, to unravel the mystery of the locket and Damian Cole. Her phone vibrated with a text from Lila: Got dirt on Damian Cole. He and Harris were Cambridge buddies until Harris screwed him over on a tech deal. Now Damian’s gunning for Malcom Innovations. Be careful with that ball.
Iva’s grip tightened on her phone. The photo in the safe Harris and Damian, young and grinning made sense now. A betrayal. Was that why Damian was Harris’s rival? And where did Clara fit in?
The next evening, the charity ball at a grand Kensington hotel was a sea of glittering gowns and tuxedos. Iva wore a fitted emerald dress that hugged her curves, its slit revealing a flash of thigh. She felt Harris’s eyes on her the moment she entered, his black tuxedo accentuating his broad shoulders and chiseled jaw. He stood among London’s elite, his presence commanding, but his gaze locked onto her, intense and unyielding.
“You clean up well,” he said, approaching with a glass of champagne, his voice low and suggestive.
“You sound surprised,” Iva replied, taking the glass, her fingers brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through her, and she cursed her body’s betrayal. “What’s the game tonight, Malcom?”
“No game,” he said, stepping closer, his heat enveloping her. “Just business. And maybe pleasure, if you behave.”
She laughed, sharp and defiant. “You’re not my type.”
“Liar,” he murmured, his eyes darkening, a promise and a threat. Before she could retort, he guided her to the dance floor, his hand firm on her lower back. The orchestra played a slow waltz, and his grip was commanding, pulling her close. Their bodies moved in sync, his strength guiding her, her defiance matching his every step. The tension was unbearable, a mix of hate and want that made her dizzy.
“You’re too close,” she whispered, though her hands tightened on his shoulders.
“You’re not pulling away,” he countered, his breath warm against her ear. Her skin tingled, and she hated how much she craved his touch.
The moment was shattered as a new figure approached. Damian Cole, sleek in a tailored tux, his blue eyes glinting with calculated charm. “Iva,” he said, his smile disarming yet predatory. “A word?”
Harris’s grip tightened briefly before he released her, his expression unreadable. “Don’t keep her long, Cole,” he said, voice laced with warning.
Damian led Iva to a quiet corner, his charm masking an edge. “You’re working for Harris,” he said, leaning in. “But you’re smarter than that. He’s not what he seems. Join me, and I’ll show you the truth about Malcom Innovations.”
Iva’s pulse raced, the locket heavy in her clutch. “Why should I trust you?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“Because I know what Harris did,” Damian said, his voice low, venomous. “He stole everything—my work, my future. He’ll use you, too. Help me bring him down, and you’ll get the credit you deserve.”
His words echoed Lila’s warning, but his intensity unnerved her. Was he the one behind the camera feed? The note? Before she could respond, his smile turned colder, his eyes flicking to Harris across the room.
“Think about it,” Damian said, slipping a card into her hand. “But don’t wait too long.”
Iva watched him melt into the crowd, her mind spinning. Damian’s proposition was a trap, she felt it but his words about Harris’s betrayal rang true. The locket, the photo, the camera feed: everything pointed to secrets Harris wasn’t sharing. She glanced at Harris, his gaze locked on her, a storm brewing in his eyes.
What game was Damian playing? And was Harris the enemy or the prize?
- Writer
