I slipped away early, the crowd's warmth pressing too close, too loud. The firelight danced on my skin as I claimed a spot at thefringe, toes buried in cool sand, sketchbook open on my lap. Charcoal whispered across the page. Vines twisting into infinity pools, shadows pooling like ink. It was mindless, meditative, the pencil's scratch a tether against the night's pull. But even here, alone, the dread curled at the edges. A flicker in the flames that looked too much like fingers, the waves' hush carrying echoes of whispers I couldn't quite hear.
Footsteps in the sand, soft, deliberate drew my gaze. Keith emerged from the gloom, two mugs cradled in one hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves still rolled. No cigar, no cognac. Just him, silhouetted against the stars, carrying... hot chocolate? The steam curled up, sweet and improbable, marshmallows bobbing like tiny clouds.
He didn't ask. Just lowered himself beside me, close enough that the heat of him cut through the evening chill, and pressed one mug into my hands. Our fingers brushed. Deliberate? Accidental?—and I inhaled the rich, cocoa-laced warmth, a small smile betraying me. "Not wine?" I murmured, glancing up.
His eyes caught the firelight, softening the storm in them. "Didn’t want to get drunk tonight" He settled back on his elbows, gaze drifting to the horizon where the ocean met the void. Silence stretched, companionable, broken only by the guitar's lazy strum and the team's distant chatter. No pressure, no probing. Just the crackle of flames and the salt-tang air.
After a while, he spoke, voice low as the tide. "You don’t like crowds."
I sipped the chocolate, the sweetness grounding me. "I don't." It was simple, true. Crowds were too many hands, too many shadows pressing in.
He nodded, as if he'd known. "Then stay out here. The stars are better company anyway." A pause, his shoulder brushing mine. Just a graze, but it sent a quiet spark through me. Cutesy, almost, in the fire's glow. The billionaire with marshmallows, the designer with charcoal smudges on her fingers. But beneath it, that dread whispered—what are you doing here, really? What is he?
He turned then, eyes finding mine. "Did you sleep well last night?"
The question caught me off guard, gentle as a secret. I thought of the quiet dreams, the absence of terror. "I did," I said softly, surprise threading my voice. "Surprisingly. After so long."
A faint smile ghosted his lips, dimples flickering like fireflies. "Good." No more. Just that word, heavy with something unspoken. The fire popped, sending sparks skyward, and for a heartbeat, the dread receded, chased by the warmth in his gaze.
Chapter 5
Aurelia
The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains, soft and deceptive in its warmth. My hands trembled faintly as I buttoned my linen blouse, the memory of last night lingering. I shook it off. This was work. A new day.
Victor had sent a message earlier:“The team is expected at the construction site by ten. Mr. Krogen will meet you there to discuss the event hall interiors.”
Mr. Krogen. The words looked strange on the screen after last night. I exhaled, tied my hair into a low bun, slipped on my flats, and met the others outside. Theo was nursing a cup of coffee like it had wronged him. Vanya looked sharp as ever, tablet in hand, and even Riley was there, sunglasses perched on her head, pretending the morning sun was offensive.
Victor greeted us at the entrance of the golf cart path. “Mr. Krogen is already on site,” he informed, voice steady, precise as always. “He’s expecting you.” Something about that made my pulse jump.
The ride to the construction site was brief. A blur of sunlight, cranes, and the rhythmic clatter of tools. The half-built event hallrose ahead, its steel skeleton glinting under the tropical light. Workers moved across scaffolding, their shouts and laughter echoing through the open space.
Keith stood near the central framework, sleeves rolled up, speaking to the foreman. He looked every bit the man in charge. Calm, composed, commanding. When his gaze flicked toward us, I smiled instinctively. He didn’t smile back. Not even a flicker. Just a polite nod. Professional, detached. It was enough to knock the air from my lungs. He wasn’t cold… just strangely indifferent, almost deliberately so. I pushed the thought away, forcing focus as Victor led us closer.
“The event hall will host private galas, weddings, and conferences,” Victor explained. “Mr. Krogen would like the interiors finalized before the next inspection.”
Keith’s voice cut in smooth, measured. “I want something that lasts. Understated elegance. This hall isn’t for excess. It’s for legacy.”
I nodded, trying to match his composure. “Muted tones, natural textures. Maybe marble with brass accents? Something timeless but not sterile.”
He met my eyes briefly. “Exactly.” Then turned to the others, already moving on to technical details.
I tried to listen, I really did. But there was something off about the air. It was thick, tense. The sun glared against the beams, the sound of grinding metal too sharp.
Then. A crack.
A sound that didn’t belong.
Heads turned. One of the steel beams above shifted with a shriek of strained bolts. My stomach dropped. Before I could even move, the world blurred. The groan of metal, a shout, and then—
A jolt.
Strong arms hit me square in the chest, shoving me backward. The air rushed from my lungs as I stumbled and fell to the ground. The beam crashed down where I’d been standing, the impact sending dust and sparks into the air.
The noise stopped. Everything stopped.
I blinked, dazed. Then saw him. Keith, standing between me and the wreckage, his right hand cradled against his side, blood seeping through his palm.
