Chapter two
1024 Words
The DeLuca Tower loomed above the London skyline like a silent god. Fifty floors of glass and secrets, glittering under the city’s restless night.
As Ava stepped out of the cab, the driver muttered a quiet “good luck” before speeding off like he knew something she didn’t.
The moment she entered the marble lobby, the air shifted. Polished floors reflected chandeliers, and the scent of expensive perfume lingered with quiet menace. Every guest was dressed to impress, their laughter light, their smiles empty. Cameras flashed, champagne sparkled, and power floated in the air like smoke.
Ava walked in with confidence she didn’t entirely feel. Her press badge was fake, her heels too high, and her heartbeat far too fast.
Still, she carried herself like she belonged. She always did.
“Good evening, miss.” A security guard scanned her badge, his gaze curious. “From The London Daily Journal, right?”
She nodded smoothly. “Covering the charity gala for next week’s feature.”
He smiled faintly. “Enjoy the night.”
If only he knew.
Inside the ballroom, everything glowed gold. Musicians played soft jazz, waiters weaved through clusters of billionaires and politicians, and in the middle of it all stood the kind of art that only the filthy rich pretended to understand.
Ava let her gaze wander, searching for him.
Luca DeLuca.
No one had ever photographed him up close not properly. His empire existed in boardrooms, not headlines. But tonight, rumor said, the king would appear.
She sipped champagne to steady her nerves, her journalist instinct ticking like a metronome. Her eyes scanned every face, every whisper, every movement that didn’t fit.
And then the room changed.
It wasn’t loud or obvious just a subtle shift, like gravity had suddenly remembered its job. Conversations paused, heads turned, and a low murmur rippled through the crowd.
Ava didn’t have to ask why.
He had arrived.
Luca DeLuca moved through the ballroom like he owned it and maybe he did. Tall, composed, wearing a black suit tailored within an inch of perfection. His hair was dark, his expression unreadable, and his presence alone made space bend around him.
She expected arrogance. What she didn’t expect was stillness. He didn’t look at people the way others did he measured them, like he was counting the cost of their existence.
Her heart stumbled. Just once. Then twice.
Her first instinct was to look away but her curiosity refused. She had chased stories before, but this man didn’t feel like one. He felt like danger disguised as temptation.
Their eyes met.
It wasn’t long. Barely a breath. But it felt like her world tilted on its axis.
Ava didn’t believe in fate only in timing.
And this moment felt like both.
“Miss Morel,” a voice murmured behind her. She turned sharply.
It was him. Up close, Luca DeLuca was devastating. His cologne was subtle but sharp, his gray eyes glinting with something that could’ve been amusement or warning.
“How do you know my name?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He smiled, slow and deliberate. “You’re a journalist. You make it your business to know people. I return the courtesy.”
Ava forced a laugh. “Well, then, you’re well informed, Mr. DeLuca.”
“I make a habit of it.” His gaze dropped briefly to her glass, then back to her face. “You don’t belong here.”
Her spine straightened. “Neither do stories but they always find a way in.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. “You’re bold.”
“I’m curious.”
“Curiosity,” he said, stepping closer, “can be expensive.”
Her pulse skipped. “Good thing I’m not cheap.”
For a second, his eyes darkened. Then, without warning, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it once, his jaw tightening, then slid it back into his pocket.
“Enjoy the gala, Miss Morel,” he said quietly. “And a word of advice don’t look for things that don’t want to be found.”
Before she could reply, he walked away, swallowed by a circle of investors and politicians.
Ava stood frozen, champagne untouched, heart racing. She’d expected arrogance. What she hadn’t expected was the warning beneath his charm.
Something about the way he said it felt less like a threat and more like a prophecy.
Later that night, when most of the guests had gone and the staff began clearing tables, Ava slipped toward the east corridor a section marked Private Access.
Her press badge wouldn’t work there, but she didn’t need it. She needed only ten seconds of curiosity.
A soft click, a quiet hallway, a single open door.
Inside, she saw something she shouldn’t have a briefcase exchange between two men, money and a silver USB drive glinting under the light.
And then his voice.
Low. Calm. Deadly.
“Miss Morel,” Luca said from behind her.
Her breath caught. She turned slowly to find him standing at the end of the hall, his expression unreadable, his hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world.
“I told you not to look,” he murmured.
Ava swallowed hard, trying to mask her fear. “You should really lock your doors, Mr. DeLuca.”
His mouth curved slightly. “And you should really learn when to leave.”
He stepped closer slow, deliberate, his gaze locked on hers until her back brushed the cold marble wall.
For a second, they just stared his shadow overlapping hers, his scent wrapping around her like sin.
“I don’t know whether to be impressed,” he said softly, “or annoyed.”
“Try both,” she whispered.
His lips twitched. “You don’t know what you’ve walked into, Miss Morel.”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “Then show me.”
That was the first time she saw him smile truly smile.
It wasn’t kind. It was dangerous.
And Ava Morel, for all her wit and warnings, didn’t realize she had just stepped into a story she might never escape.
- Writer
