"We aren't waiting," I tell him, moving back to my computer to start unhooking everything to transfer to the vehicle. "We’re preparing. We need to get the vehicles set up and moved. Andre needs to go take his place with the catering staff. Marcus, grab Skip’s bed and food. We move in thirty."
The game is on. And this time, we’re playing for keeps.
Chapter 13 – Demi (February 14)
The Heart of Gold Auction is a masterclass in hypocrisy. The ballroom of the Thorne Estate has been transformed into a bleeding heart of red velvet, cascading roses, and crystal chandeliers that drip light like diamonds. It smells of money, expensive perfume, old scotch, and the distinct, metallic tang of ego.
I weave through the crowd of San Francisco’s elite, balancing a tray of champagne flutes. My shoulders are hunched, my gaze is lowered, and my feet shuffle in the ugly orthopedic shoes. I am furniture. I am a ghost in a room full of people who think they are gods because they’re bidding fifty thousand dollars on a vintage watch to "save the children" or "heal hearts."
Bullshit.
Every dollar raised tonight is a tax write-off and an ego stroke to the rich. Every smile is a networking opportunity and presiding over it all is Dr. Evil in a couture dress.
She stands on a raised dais near the auctioneer’s podium, looking like a queen surveying her subjects. She’s wearing ablood-red gown that looks like it was poured onto her body, the fabric shimmering like liquid rubies. Her hair is a severe, platinum helmet, and her lips are painted a dark crimson. She looks beautiful, powerful, and utterly soulless. I tighten my grip on the silver tray, fighting the urge to fling the champagne into her face.
Focus, Demi. Stick to the script.
I tap my ear, a nervous tick that looks like I’m adjusting my hair to anyone watching, but actually activates the mic.
"Target is stationary at the podium," I whisper, barely moving my lips. "Security is heavy. Two on the dais, four roving the perimeter. Graves is hovering near the service entrance."
"Copy that," Damon’s voice is a cool breeze in my ear. "I’m tracking the rovers. You have a thirty-second window when the shift changes at the executive hallway. Not yet, though. We need the distraction."
"Distraction incoming," a smooth, arrogant voice purrs.
I look toward the main entrance just as the double doors swing open.
Marcus or rather, Julian Vane, strides into the room.
Holy shit. I’ve seen Marcus in a suit before. I’ve seen him naked. I’ve seen him covered in sweat and lust. But I have never seen him like this. He is devastatingly handsome. He’s wearing a midnight blue tuxedo with a black velvet lapel that screams 'old money.' His hair is styled back, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, but he’s let a single curl fall forward, just to look a little dangerous. He walks with a lazy, predatory grace that draws every eye in the room. He looks rich, he looks bored, he looks exactly like my kind of trouble.
He pauses at the top of the stairs, scanning the room. His eyes slide right over me, Martha is invisible after all, and locks onto Aris Thorne. A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face.
"Showtime," he murmurs on the comms.
He descends the stairs, and the crowd literally parts for him. He radiates charisma like a blast furnace. I watch as he grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, not me, thank god, I’d probably drop the tray, and makes a beeline for the dais.
"Dr. Thorne," his voice carries, rich and smooth. "Julian Vane. My associates told me this was the event of the season, but they failed to mention the hostess was the real attraction."
It’s a line so cheesy it should come with a side of nachos, but Marcus sells it. He sells it with the dimples, with the heat in his eyes, with the sheer force of his personality.
Thorne turns with a phoney smile plastered on her face. She scans him, checking the Patek Philippe watch, the Prada shoes, and the confidence. She calculates his net worth in a microsecond and decides he’s worth her time.
Her icy smile thaws into something that almost looks human. "Mr. Vane. I’ve heard of your... aggressive investment strategies. I didn't know you had an interest in healthcare."
"I have an interest in anything that disrupts the status quo," Marcus says, stepping close enough to her to create an intimate pocket between them. He takes her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles. "And rumor has it, you’re the biggest disruptor in the valley."
She preens. Actually preens, and I try not to gag.
"Hook set," Andre’s voice rumbles in my ear. "Blue, get to the bar. I need to restock your tray."
I tear my eyes away from Marcus’s performance and shuffle toward the main bar, located near the back of the room. The bartender is working with efficient, brutal precision. He’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows exposing mouth watering forearm porn, a black vest, and a black tie. Andre looks furious. Not at the guests, but at the situation. He hates being on the sidelines. He hates that I’m out here exposed while he’s pouring gin and tonics for trophy wives.
I slide my empty tray onto the bar. "Refill, please," I squeak in my Martha voice.
He doesn't look at me, just grabs a bottle of champagne and starts filling fresh flutes on a new tray. But as he works, his body leans slightly toward mine across the bar top.
"You okay?" His voice is low enough to be lost under the jazz band’s rendition of 'My Funny Valentine.'
