Page 5 of Venomous Games

“Twenty minutes. I’m already late.”

“Fucking hell, Carrie,” I grumble, getting up.

She grabs a pair of blue heels that match the color of my hair. “Wear these with whatever dress you pick.”

“I haven’t broken those in yet,” I tell her, then shrug my shoulders with a grin. “Guess tonight is the night I do.”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I whine as we wait outside the gala entrance. Her date, Bailey, is late even though we were running late ourselves. Quite rude, if you ask me, especially since we can’t get in without him. Invite only, or some shit.

The building in front of me gleams under the city lights, its facade a mix of sleek glass panels and ornate stonework, the kind of architecture that screams money and prestige. Red carpets run up the steps, flanked by velvet ropes and uniformed door attendants. And to think I could be home right now, in my pajamas. Instead, I’m here, watching women in gowns that shimmer as they sweep past. Men in bespoke suits adjust their cuffs, oozing a polished charm as they offer hands to their escorts. The scent of expensive perfume drifts in the air, mingling with the faint exhaust from the cars.

And here I am, standing off to the side, annoyed, slightly out of place, and taking it all in. Waiting.

I fucking hate waiting.

“I forgot to tell you something,” Carrie says.

“What?” I glance at her, shifting my weight slightly as my shoes pinch my toes. The ground beneath my feet is too hard, every step a reminder that beauty is pain.

“We signed NDAs to be here. It’s very exclusive, okay?”

I turn my head toward her slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You mean you signed for me?” I ask.

“Well, yes.” She waves a hand dismissively, completely unbothered. “I do run your life, so of course I signed for you.” She smiles, pleased with herself, just as someone calls her name.

We both turn to Bailey as he approaches.

“You said it was a gala,” I murmur under my breath as I scan the entrance again—the security, the person checking the guest list, the way people are being scrutinized before being let in.

“It is … of sorts,” she says just before Bailey reaches her and pulls her into his arms. I stand there as he kisses her, tongue and all, and try not to dry heave at their public display of affection. When they finally part, Bailey turns to look at me. He’s an accountant, and an excellent one with connections, or so Carrie says.

“This is Maven,” Carrie says to Bailey, who still has her locked in his grasp.

“Delicious,” he says, and Carrie’s gaze slides to me as I raise a brow. “Boston should be here any moment,” Bailey adds, glancing down the street.

I follow his gaze. The night stretches out, the city lit by streetlamps and the glow of lights behind windows, cars occasionally passing, headlights briefly cutting across the polished stone and blacked-out windows. Conversations hum around us, but my focus sharpens, instincts pulling tight.

Then a car pulls up to the curb. It’s not flashy or loud. It idles for half a second before the engine cuts off, then the driver’s side door opens. And something in me snaps to attention when a man steps out. Is that Boston? One foot hits the pavement, then the other, unfolding to his full height in a way that draws the eye without asking for it. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t hesitate, just shuts the door behind him with a quiet, solid snick, and adjusts his cuff as if this is routine.

Bailey lifts a hand, waving him over.

I take him in slowly.

He’s tall, taller than most, and built solidly, without being excessive. Broad shoulders, straight posture, the kind of presence that comes from knowing exactly what your body can do. His clothes are simple compared to the other attendees—a dark-blue, long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled just enough at the wrists, and black dress pants, sans jacket and tie.

It should make him look out of place.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes everyone else appear overdone.

He glances up, and everything narrows. His eyes are sharp, cold, the color of gunmetal, and he glances around quickly at first, scanning the area. He spots Bailey, then his gaze shifts, moving past Carrie, and lands on me.

It’s instant; a quiet, internal click. My body reacts before I can think it through, my shoulders pulling back slightly, my frame tensing, my attention locking on him completely.

He starts walking toward us, each step steady and unhurried, as if he already knows exactly how this interaction will go. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. I don’t look away. I want to see if he breaks the connection first. He doesn’t. By the time he reaches us, the area around us feels smaller, somehow tighter, as though something unseen settles between us.

“This is Maven,” Bailey says to him.