CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter Twenty one: It was Excess

Abigail Macron

The applause slowly died down, melting back into the ambient hum of the string quartet and the clinking of crystal glasses. On the podium, my father threw his arm around Caleb’s shoulders one last time before stepping down into the crowd to be swarmed by a group of municipal politicians. Caleb remained on the lower step for a fraction of a second, his posture turning rigid the moment the spotlight shifted away from him.

He didn't walk toward me. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed toward the outdoor bar on the opposite end of the lawn, instantly melting into a group of foreign investors.

"You're shaking," Jasmine muttered, her voice cutting through the fog in my brain. She subtly adjusted her position, stepping in front of me to block the view of a nearby corporate photographer whose lens was wandering toward our corner.

"I'm fine," I lied, my voice tight as I stared down into the golden, effervescent bubbles of my champagne.

"Abby, you're not fine. You look like you just survived a high-speed collision," she hissed under her breath, her eyes darting toward the high slit of my gown where the torn edges of my underwear were completely gone, a detail she didn't need to see to understand. "We need to get you away from the lights before your dad decides to drag you into a photo op with the Chiyoda board."

"I can't just leave," I whispered, the ghost of Caleb’s touch still vibrating against the bare skin of my waist. "It will look suspicious if the daughter of the host vanishes five minutes into the opening remarks."

"Then we move to the perimeter. Come on." Jasmine grabbed my wrist, her grip firm and holding me as she guided me away from the bright white tents and toward the edge of the manicured lawn, where the property sloped down into the dark, sweeping expanse of the canyon.

The air grew cooler the further we walked from the heated pavilions. The noise of the gala softened into a distant, rhythmic murmur, like the sound of an ocean hidden behind a wall. We stopped by the wrought-iron balustrade overlooking the valley, the distant lights of the city below looking like a scattered handful of diamonds thrown across black velvet.

I leaned my hands against the cool stone, letting the night breeze rip through the loose waves of my blonde hair. My lips still tingle, swollen and bruised from the ferocity of his mouth against the library door.

"He's going to get caught, Abby," Jasmine said quietly, her voice losing its usual sharp, cynical edge, replacing it with a heavy, protective gravity. "Or you are. Your dad isn't an i***t. Right now, he’s blinded by the acquisition and the champagne, but Caleb is his best friend. He knows Caleb too much not to sense when something is fishy. If Caleb slips up even once—if he looks at you the wrong way during breakfast tomorrow—it’s over."

"Caleb won't slip," I said, a dark, heavy certainty settling into my chest. "You saw him up there on that stage. He just desecrated my father's desk, and two minutes later, he shook his hand with a smile that could fool the devil. He's a monster at hiding it."

"And what about you?" Jasmine turned to face me, her arms crossed over her gold dress. "Are you a monster at hiding it, too?"

Before I could answer, the soft rustle of leather shoes against the gravel path made both of us freeze.

I spun around, my heart immediately leaping into my throat, expecting to see my father’s imposing silhouette or the cold, unblinking eyes of his security detail.

Instead, a young man stepped out from the shadows of the rose garden. He was tall, impeccably groomed, with a sharp, aristocratic jawline and dark hair parted perfectly to one side. He wore a tuxedo that probably cost more than a standard corporate salary, and he held two fresh glasses of champagne in his hands.

It was Julian Vance—the son of the lead underwriter my father had been courting all evening, and the man my father had subtly hinted would make an "excellent companion" for me at the upcoming summer charity circuit.

"I hope I'm not interrupting a private summit," Julian said, his voice a smooth, practiced Ivy League baritone as he offered one of the glasses toward me. A charming, confident smile touched his lips, but his eyes were sharp, tracking the loose, wild state of my hair and the flushed color of my cheeks with a quiet curiosity. "Your father mentioned you were feeling a bit under the weather earlier, Abigail. I wanted to see if the lady of the hour was recovering."

Jasmine instantly stepped back, her corporate smile snapping into place like a shield. "Julian. Perfect timing. I was just about to head back to the bar to find something stronger than bubbles."

She gave my arm a tight, warning squeeze as she brushed past him, leaving me completely exposed on the edge of the terrace.

"Thank you, Julian," I said, forcing my voice to drop into the polite, debutante tone I had been trained to use since childhood. I took the glass from his hand, my fingers intentionally avoiding his touch. "The noise inside was just a bit overwhelming. I needed some air."

"I don't blame you," Julian said, turning to lean against the stone balustrade beside me, his profile cutting a sharp silhouette against the city lights. "My father has been talking about this acquisition for six months, but seeing the reality of what David and Caleb have built... It's intimidating. Especially Caleb. The man moves like a phantom in the boardroom. Nobody ever sees his play coming until the ink is already dry."

"Yes," I murmured, my throat tightening as the irony of his words threatened to choke me. "Caleb is very calculated."

"He is," Julian agreed, his gaze slowly shifting away from the valley to lock onto my face. He stepped a fraction of an inch closer, the scent of his expensive, mainstream cologne hitting my nose—a scent that felt entirely thin and artificial compared to the heavy, smoky leather that still saturated my senses. "But I didn't come out here to talk about corporate strategy, Abby. Your father mentioned you'd be spending the summer at the Malibu house. I was hoping I could convince you to let me take you out on the water next weekend."

As he spoke, my eyes automatically drifted past his shoulder, scanning the distant crowd near the terrace steps.

Through the shifting sea of guests, a large, dark figure emerged from the shadows of the main pavilion. Caleb was standing alone near the edge of the stone steps, a fresh drink in his hand. He wasn't looking at the investors anymore. His dark, dilated eyes were locked entirely onto the dark perimeter

of the lawn—specifically onto the sight of Julian Vance leaning close to my face.

Even from some yards away, I could see the absolute, lethal rigidity in Caleb’s posture. The corporate vanguard was gone. In his place stood the predator, his jaw clenched so hard I could almost hear the bone grind from across the lawn, his knuckles white around the crystal glass as he watched another man touch the territory he had just ruined in the dark.

A slow, wicked warmth bloomed deep in my core, completely replacing the lingering panic.

"Malibu sounds lovely, Julian," I said, my voice rising just enough to carry over the breeze, my eyes never leaving Caleb’s face as I reached out and let my fingers brush against Julian’s sleeve. "I’d love to see the water.”