Chapter 12
998 Words
The Charity Ball
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered like a jewelry box: crystal chandeliers dripping light, champagne flutes catching it like stars, gowns in every shade of money. The annual Winter Hearts Gala raised millions for pediatric cancer research, but everyone knew the real currency tonight was power.
Ava stepped off Lucian’s arm and felt every eye in the room turn.
The dress he’d chosen was liquid gold, backless to the base of her spine, necklace plunging just enough to make conversation dangerous. Diamonds glittered at her neck, his mother’s, he’d said quietly while fastening the clasp, as if that made them less of a collar. She looked like a queen. She felt like a sacrifice.
Lucian’s hand settled at the small of her back, fingers splayed wide, branding her through silk. Be brilliant, he murmured against her ear. But remember who you come home with.
Then he released her into the crowd, a shark letting a minnow swim, certain the ocean belonged to him.
She was brilliant.
She worked the room like she’d been born to it. A senator’s wife wanted introductions to Blackwell’s European partners, Ava supplied three names and phone numbers before dessert. A tech billionaire asked about sustainable logistics, she sketched a hybrid-fleet proposal on the back of a place card that left him blinking. By the second hour, a small constellation of powerful men orbited her, laughing at her dry wit, refilling her champagne, asking for her card.
Lucian watched from the bar, scotch untouched, eyes tracking every smile she gave away.
Damien Voss appeared like a cool breeze in the heat.
Miss Harper, he greeted, bowing slightly, blond hair catching the light. You’re wasted on Blackwell’s arm. You should be running the room.
She smiled, guarded. I’m exactly where I need to be.
Are you? He leaned in, voice low. Because I have an office with your name on it. Chief Strategy Officer. Seven figure salary, full autonomy and no one locking doors on you at night.
The words hit like ice water. She glanced around no Lucian in sight. How do you
I make it my business to know when talent is being caged. He slipped a black card into her palm, fingers brushing hers deliberately. Offer stands for thirty days. After that, I can’t promise I won’t poach someone else.
Before she could answer, a shadow fell over them.
Lucian materialized, hand sliding around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. Voss, he said, the name like a curse. Still sniffing around things that don’t belong to you?
Damien’s grin was razor sharp. Just admiring the view, Blackwell. She’s magnificent.
She’s mine.The words rumbled through Lucian’s chest into her spine.
Damien lifted his glass in mock salute and melted into the crowd.
Lucian didn’t speak again until the orchestra struck up a waltz. Then he spun her onto the floor without asking, one hand iron at her waist, the other clasping hers like a shackle.
You let him touch you, he said against her temple as they moved.
He handed me a card.
You smiled.
I was working.
His grip tightened, guiding her through a turn that pressed her flush against him. Every man in this room is imagining you naked. And you’re smiling at them.
Heat flared low in her belly. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.
It suits me just fine. His lips brushed her ear. Because I’m the only one who gets to make the fantasy real.
The music swelled. He danced her backward, off the floor, through a side door into a dimly lit service corridor lined with velvet drapes and gilded mirrors. Empty. Private.
He pressed her against the nearest wall, mouth claiming hers in a kiss that tasted like possession and champagne. She kissed him back just as fiercely, nails scraping his nape, legs parting instinctively when his thigh slid between them.
Tell me you’re wet for me, he growled against her throat, hand already rucking up the silk of her dress.
Always, she admitted on a gasp.
He groaned, hiking her leg over his hip, fingers slipping beneath lace to find her slick and ready. Two strokes and she was trembling. Three and she bit his shoulder to muffle a cry.
Not here, he rasped, but he didn’t stop, couldn't circling her clit with ruthless precision until her knees buckled.
He caught her, spun her to face an ornate mirror, bending her forward. The reflection showed them both his tux perfect except where her lipstick smeared his collar, her gown pooled at her waist, eyes wild.
Look at yourself, he ordered, freeing himself with one hand, the other still working her mercilessly. Look who you belong to.
She watched him thrust into her in one smooth stroke, watched her own mouth fall open on a silent scream. The mirror shook with every snap of his hips, diamonds flashing at her throat like a brand.
It was fast, filthy, perfect. He reached around, fingers finding her clit again, and she came with a choked sob, clenching around him. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, teeth sinking into her shoulder to stifle his groan.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, the distant strains of the orchestra filtering through the door like another world.
His arms came around her, gentle now, lips pressing soft kisses to the mark he’d left. I’m sorry, he whispered against her skin. I see them look at you and I lose my mind.
She turned in his arms, cupping his jaw. “Then trust me to come back to you. Because I always do.”
For a moment he looked wrecked, beautifully, humanly wrecked. Then he kissed her forehead, helped straighten her dress, tucked himself away.
Damien’s black card was still in her clutch.
She didn’t throw it away.
But when they walked back into the ballroom, her hand was in Lucian’s, fingers laced tight, and she didn’t look for blonde hair in the crowd again. Not tonight.
- Writer
