Page 26 of Hostile

The unshakable Aldridge heir.

Let’s see how unshakable you are tonight, Wyatt.

The Aldridge charity gala was held in the private ballroom of a Midtown hotel the company managed on behalf of its ownership trust. Of course it was. Even their philanthropy was vertical integration. The room was exactly what I’d expected—high ceilings, tasteful floral arrangements, and lighting designed to make everyone look a little more beautiful and a little less tired than they were. A string quartet played in the corner. The open bar drew its predictable crowd. The low hum of a room full of people who were comfortable here, who had always been comfortable here, who would never once think to question whether they belonged.

I’d spent most of my adult life perfecting the ability to walk into rooms like this and look as if I’d never questioned it either.

With my coat checked, I accepted a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray and took my time scanning the room as I always did—methodically, starting on the left and moving right, cataloging exits and clusters and the general emotional temperature of the space. A habit I’d developed in my first year on Wall Street, when a mentor told me that the most important thing to do when you walk into any room is to understand it before it understands you.

I understood this room.

I hadn’t found him yet. Not that I’m looking, I told myself.

Sure, said the other part of my brain, the part that had been running its own commentary since I stepped out of the cab. Absolutely. You wore that dress for the quarterly earnings report.

The dress was simple—black, structured, nothing that announced itself. But I’d stood in my closet for twenty minutes before I put it on, which was nineteen minutes longer than I usually did in the morning, and I was not going to examine that too closely.

A board member I recognized from the company’s annual report materialized at my elbow. “Miss Hale. So glad you could make it.” He shook my hand with the practiced warmth of a man who’d spent his life shaking hands at events like this. “We were pleased to receive your RSVP. Hale Capital has made quite a name for itself.”

“Thank you. It’s been a good year.”

“I’ll say. We’ve been following your portfolio moves with great interest.” He smiled the smile of a man who knew more than he was saying and was enjoying knowing it. “You’ll have to tell me your secret sometime.”

Patience, I thought. And a very long memory.

“I just do my homework,” I said pleasantly.

He laughed and moved on, and I turned back to the room.

That’s when I felt it.

I’ve tried to explain this to myself over the years, the way my body always knew before my brain caught up. Some frequency I couldn’t tune out, no matter how many years passed or how many walls I built or how thoroughly I’d convinced myself I was over it. The air in the room changed—just slightly, just enough—and every nerve ending I had went on alert.

I turned my head.

He was across the room, shaking hands with someone near the bar, and he hadn’t seen me yet. He wore a dark suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt open—the Savannah old-money version of dressed up, which had always been its own quiet statement. He was different from the boy I’d known at eighteen. Broader. Stiller. The easy confidence of his twenties had settled into something more grounded and deliberate.

More dangerous.

Don’t, I told myself.

His companion said something, and Wyatt smiled—not the full social smile, just a brief, distracted one—and then he turned his head.

Our eyes met.

The recognition spread across his face exactly as it had in that Harvard auditorium ten years ago—surprise first, sharp and unguarded, as the brain encountered something it wasn’t prepared for. Then something more complicated. Something that reached me all the way across the room and made my grip tighten slightly on my glass.

The room kept moving around us. Conversations continued. The string quartet played something quiet and precise. Neither of us moved.

I watched him excuse himself from his companion. Watched him cross the room with that unhurried stride that had been driving me crazy since I was seventeen years old and refused to admit it. He stopped in front of me with two feet of space between us—close enough to talk, far enough to be polite—and looked at me the way I’d been trying to stop remembering he used to look at me.

Like I was the only fixed point in the room.

“Megan.” His voice was quiet. Just my name. The same way he’d said it in the auditorium, and at the café, and in front of my dorm in the rain—like it was a complete sentence, like it meant something, like he’d been saving it.

My heart did something I strictly forbade.

“Wyatt.” My voice came out exactly as I needed it to—level, composed, the voice of a woman who had run into an old acquaintance at a charity event and was mildly, professionally surprised. A genuine miracle, given everything happening beneath the surface. “You look well.”