I adjust the thin strap of my black dress, feeling the smooth fabric shift against my skin as I survey my domain—because tonight, that’s exactly what this is.Mine.If Holston wanted credit, he should have been here.
But his absence also means it’s my reputation on the line with every champagne flute and canapé tray that passes through a Cleveland crowd of donors, clients, and climbers. Talk about a double-edged sword.
“More champagne to the east corner, less hovering by the stairs,” I murmur to a passing server, who nods and corrects course without breaking stride. Perfect.
Looking around, I discreetly check if anyone seems too warm or too cold. Despite Holston’s notes, I asked them not to blast the air-con. It’s Cleveland in May, for crying out loud.
I check my mental list; a boardroom wife laughing too hard at a bad joke? Check. Potential clients being subtly cornered by our suits? Check. Servers keeping glasses full without creating sloppy drunks? Check.
Honestly, I’m so good I deserve a gold star next to each checkmark.
“Raven.” I turn to the owner of the voice; Derek, our newest account manager. “The tech couple—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Marsh,” I interrupt helpfully.
“Yeah, them.” Derek shakes his head and discreetly wipes his hand across his forehead. “They’re asking about the charity auction?”
“It’s at nine,” I inform, keeping my smile in place. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly to walk them through it personally.”
Derek shoots me a grateful smile before scampering off, leaving me to observe.
Every detail of this evening is already locked in my mind. Which server is slacking, and that would be the redhead by the east entrance. Which guest needs extra attention, the silver-haired developer who stands by himself.
I snag a champagne flute from a passing tray, not to drink but to hold—a prop that makes me look relaxed while keeping both hands occupied so no one tries to pull me into lengthy conversations. The bubbles rise in perfect strands, tiny golden elevators to nowhere.
As I weave through bodies, the atmosphere shifts. It ripples through the crowd like a stone dropped in still water—subtle but unmistakable.
Backs straighten, and voices lower. The crowd near the piano steps aside without seeming to realize they’re doing it, clearing a space as if by magnetic repulsion.
A man has entered. No, entered isn’t the right word. He’s manifested like a dark thought you can’t take back.
My first thought is that he’s tall. Tall enough that people need to crane their necks to look at his face, which many seem reluctant to do. His suit is clearly bespoke, the kind that costs more than most people’s monthly mortgage.
Black ink creeps above his collar, hinting at tattoos hidden beneath expensive fabric. His fingers—long, almost elegant despite their obvious strength—adjust his cuffs with practiced precision.
The second thing I notice are the scars; burn marks crawling up the left side of his neck and face like permanent shadows.
Then… oh. His eyes—gray like storm clouds heavy with unspent violence—lock briefly on someone across the room before continuing their slow, assessing sweep. One moves a fraction slower than the other, but I barely register it beneath the weight of that gaze.
His gaze sweeps the room, assessing, dismissing.
I know I should stop staring, hell, my subconsciousness is screaming for me to look away. But I can’t. I’m transfixed by the way beauty and brutality merge.
The crowd parts further, conversation dimming wherever his eyes land. He doesn’t command attention; he takes it by the throat.
Be still my heart… or is it my pussy that’s fluttering? Hard to tell which is louder.
He doesn’t belong here, among the starched collars and polite smiles. Yet everyone reacts as if he’s the most important person in the room. Who is this man?
I watch how the security guards straighten when he passes. How the older businessmen nod with cautious respect. How women’s eyes follow him, fear mingled with curiosity and something primal. Can’t say I blame them. He’s fine as all hell.
Though I should be moving, I remain in place as he prowls toward the champagne. There’s something feral in his movements, something that doesn’t match the refined cut of his clothes, yet completely fits his scars and cocky smirk.
A wolf in designer clothing. And God, I’d love to have him huff and puff at me. No, down girl. I mentally chastise my overactive libido. I’m here to do a job, not to gawk at pretty strangers.
Speaking of work, I should know who he is. It’s literally my job to know everyone at this event. Yet I know he’s not on my guest list. I’ve memorized every face, and his, I’d definitely remember.
I’m still studying him when he turns, his heavy gaze landing directly on me. His mouth curves slightly. It’s not quite a smile, more the look of a man who’s spotted something interesting. Something he might want.
