She looked away. Turned to a colleague. Smiled with her mouth and not her eyes.
But she’d looked.
She’d felt it too, and she’d looked, and that was enough for now.
I stayed where I was and watched her move through the crowd — easy confidence with peers, barely-touched wine, the slight tension in her shoulders that told me she always knew exactly where I was standing even when she was pointedly not looking at me.
The game was far from over.
For the first time in years, I found myself genuinely uncertain of the outcome — and more interested in the game than in anything else my empire had to offer.
Chapter Six
Emilia “Em” Rivera
The Chicago Media Association’s Annual Excellence Dinner occupied a ballroom at the Drake Hotel that screamed old money and older secrets. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors polished to a mirror shine, and everywhere I looked, power dressed itself in designer labels and practiced smiles.
I adjusted my dress for the third time in as many minutes, smoothing the silk like it might somehow armor me against what waited inside. The fabric was new — a splurge I couldn’t really afford, deep burgundy that Jenna had insisted brought out the gold flecks in my eyes. As if gold flecks were going to help me navigate an evening surrounded by media moguls, corporate sponsors, and one very specific billionaire I’d come dangerously close to not leaving his office two days ago.
Almost being the operative word. The word I’d been repeating to myself like a mantra ever since I’d stepped back, straightened my blazer, and walked out of Laurent Enterpriseswith my dignity technically intact and my pulse doing something completely undignified.
Excellent life choices, Em. Really stellar work.
The invitation had arrived three days ago. I’d attended twice before, both times lurking near the appetizer table and avoiding eye contact with anyone who might ask about my career trajectory. This year was different. This year I had a story that could reshape my entire professional life.
This year I also had the memory of Sebastian Laurent’s hand hovering near my cheek — not quite touching, giving me every chance to step back — seared into places I hadn’t found a way to reach.
I pushed through the entrance, nodded at the security guard who checked my credentials with the enthusiasm of a man counting down the minutes until his shift ended, and let the ballroom swallow me.
My phone vibrated.
You there yet? Please tell me you wore the burgundy.
Jenna. Of course.
I wore the burgundy. Stop mother-henning me.
Not mother-henning. Sister-henning. Big difference. Also you didn’t answer my question about whether HE would be there.
I hadn’t answered because I already knew the answer. Sebastian Laurent’s name was listed among the event sponsors. Laurent Enterprises had donated enough to the Media Association’s scholarship fund to buy naming rights to a small country. The man understood the value of appearing generous.
He also understood, apparently, the value of appearing directly in my line of sight at every possible opportunity.
I spotted him immediately.
Not because I was looking — I was absolutely not looking — but because the room seemed to reorganize itself around hispresence the way rooms always did with him. Conversations shifted. Shoulders straightened. Even the ambient lighting appeared to cooperate, casting him in gold that photographers probably sold their souls to achieve.
He stood near the bar, one hand wrapped around something amber, the other tucked casually in his pocket. Dark hair slightly disheveled in that deliberate way that screamed wealth rather than carelessness. The trimmed beard. The jaw. The white shirt open just enough at the collar that my memory supplied the rest without my permission.
Storm-gray eyes found mine across fifty feet of crowded ballroom.
Heat flashed through my chest before irritation could catch up and correct it.
I looked away first. Grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server. Reminded myself that I was a professional, that the story mattered, that whatever had almost happened in his office two days ago had been stopped for very good reasons that I stood behind completely.
The champagne burned going down. I took another sip anyway.
“Emilia Rivera.”
