Austen lifts a brow, unconvinced. “She developed the core algorithm. It makes sense.” A slight pause. “Unless you think it’s a bad idea?”
A calculated question. And the bastard holds my gaze a second too long, like he’s reading between the lines. Like he knows.
The problem is, it isn’t a bad idea. It’s the logical move. But the thought of Violet in my sights for an entire weekend has something unfamiliar curling in my gut.
She’d be fine. Violet is smart. She doesn’t need me looking out for her.
But I can still taste her. Hear her soft whimpers as I ground her into the wall. Feel her heat against mine.
I exhale slowly, setting my glass down. “You’re the CTO, Austen. If you think it’s necessary, then so be it. But if they want a software demo, perhaps the entire team should be there.”
He simply nods, watching me with that same quiet scrutiny. Austen knows me better than I know myself sometimes. He can see I’m not myself around Violet.
A soft hand lands on my forearm. “You all talk too much about work,” Rosanna cuts in. “It’s a gala. Let’s enjoy it.”
I lift my glass, ignoring the way she angles her body toward mine, the way she’s been playing the role of the doting date all night. She’s here because of her ambassador role, nothing more, but she’s treating it like something else entirely.
I need space.
Without a word, I push back from the table and stand. Rosanna’s gaze flicks up to me, expectant, but I don’t spare her a glance as I step toward the open balcony.
Below, the masquerade is in full swing. A sea of masked figures moves beneath the chandeliers, light fracturing across silk and sequins. The energy is electric, chaotic, a world away from the controlled space I just left.
But then a figure cuts through the haze, wearing a dress that seems like it was tailored to test all my limits. It clings to her like liquid night, hugging every curve tightly with a sexy scooped-out back that has my fingers itching to trail her silky skin. Even from this distance, I sense it—the pull, the slow, smoldering gravity of her.
Violet.
She doesn’t see me. Not yet. But I see her.
And suddenly, nothing else matters.
For a second, I remember the last time I held her close. The way she melted against me before pushing me away.
My fingers flex around my glass.
“Chase Knight,” a voice purrs behind me.
I don’t turn immediately. I already know who it is.
Vanessa Sinclair, a high society party girl whose favorite hobby is billionaires. I made the mistake of fucking her about five years ago, and she’s never let me forget it. My irritation flares at how she got an invitation, but then I remember Fergus, our CFO, has been pining to get her under him. If I recall, she was recently married, and Fergus loves nothing more than the challenge of a married woman. Unfortunately for Fergus and myself, she’s still clearly focused on me. Her dress brushes against my sleeve as she sidles next to me, leaning in. She smells expensive—something floral, a little too calculated. Her dark hair gleams under the light, but her once-striking face now has so much filler I’m concerned she may melt if she gets too close to the candelabras.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she whines, her mouth so close, her tongue is almost down my ear.
I take a sip of whiskey. “Maybe that should tell you something.”
She hums, tilting her head. “You always did like to play hard to get, Chase.”
“No, Vanessa, I never play hard to get. If I want something, I take it.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Immediately, I see the excited spark in her eyes.
“How’s married life, Vanessa?” I ask, shifting tactics, hoping the mention of her newly signed,legally binding contractmight inject some sense into her.
“My husband’s away for at least a week.” The way her nails scrape over my biceps leaves no room for misinterpretation.
“Vanessa, you know I’m not interested in married women.”
“Oh, Chase,” she tsks, tilting her head. “Why be such a bore?”
