Adena
I let my eyes drift across the room while pretending to listen.
Valentina's still watching me.Not openly—she's too refined for that—but I feel her gaze like a weight every time I shift in my seat.Like she's documenting my every breath, waiting for me to slip.
I sip my champagne and pray no one notices how much I loathe the stuff.
Beside me, Jagger's talking numbers with Ortega.Distribution routes.Profit margins.His voice is steady, confident, like he's done this a thousand times.When I catch his side glance, I force myself to nod at appropriate intervals and make sure I’m wearing the neutral expression of a woman who understands just enough to be useful but not enough to be threatening.
The servers move like ghosts—refilling water glasses, clearing plates, appearing and vanishing without a sound.One sets a small dessert plate in front of me.Crème brûlée.
"Adena."Marquez's voice cuts through the conversation."Dance with me."
My stomach drops.
Jagger's hand tightens on mine under the table.Just for a second, then he releases me, his fingers sliding away as he picks up his spoon and taps on the shell.
I force a smile and set down my champagne."I'd love to."
Another lie to add to the growing list.How can Jagger stand these people?
Marquez rises and leads me to the dance floor, weaving between tables with practiced ease.The music shifts as we step onto the polished wood—something slower, more intimate.Almost as if he planned it.
Wonderful.
His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me way closer than necessary.
"You handled Valentina well," he says, his breath warm against my temple."Most women crumble under her scrutiny."
"I won’t."
He laughs—a low, pleased sound."No.You can’t afford to."His hand slides lower on my back, fingers splaying possessively."That's why you're valuable."
We drift toward the edge of the floor, away from the lights, into the shadows near the back hallway where the music softens and the eyes of the room don't quite reach.
His hand drops lower.Curves over my backside.
Every muscle in my body locks.My breath catches.I feel the heat of his palm through the velvet, the press of his fingers.
He doesn't move it.
My heart hammers.Adrenaline floods my system—fight or flight—but I can't do either.Can't shove him away.Can't run.Can't even flinch.
I'm trapped in this moment, his hand on me, his body too close.
"You leave your hand there any longer," I say, keeping my voice light, "I'll have to start charging you rent."
He laughs—genuinely amused.The sound vibrates through his chest into mine.
But his hand stays where it is.Two beats.Three.Long enough that I know it's deliberate.Long enough that I feel sick.
Then, finally, it slides back up to the small of my back.
"You have a sense of humor," he says, his mouth too close to my ear."I like that in a woman."
My skin crawls.I want to scrub myself clean, want to put distance between us.But I can't.So I meet his eyes instead."I'm also loyal to Jagger."
Marquez studies me.His eyes are dark, calculating, measuring how far he can push, how much I'll bend.
