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I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me feel incredible. Which is ridiculous. Dangerous, even.

Because Mitchell Knight isn't interested in me. Not really.

He's interested in controlling the story. I haven't forgotten that.

He invited an investigative journalist into his home for thirty days after learning I might be digging around his family. The flirting could easily be another strategy.

Keep me off-balance.

Make me feel special.

Give me unprecedented access while controlling what I see.

It’s smart, actually.

As a business strategy, I respect the hell out of it.

As a woman? It makes me a little sad.

And I hate that.

Because some increasingly stupid part of me wants the way he looks at me to be real.

Stop it, Layla.

I force my attention back to the gala. Which isn't difficult. The room is outrageous. Beautiful, but outrageous.

There are people full-on cosplaying as Mother Earth. One woman has flowers woven through approximately six feet of hair while vines wind around a gown that appears to have an actual functioning bird's nest attached to one shoulder.

A few fairies flutter through the crowd. At least I assume they're supposed to be fairies. Maybe sprites.

I'm unclear on the distinction.

The servers are dressed like wood nymphs. One just offered me champagne while wearing antlers.

Ah, to be rich and decadent.

I shake my head.

Still...

It's stunning.

Trees covered in tiny lights stretch toward the ceiling. Flowers spill from every surface. The walls have been transformed into forests using projections so realistic I keep expecting woodland creatures to wander out.

It's less charity gala and more enchanted forest populated by billionaires.

A spectacle.

Truly.

“Having fun?”

I turn. And it’s him.

Mitchell.

“I'm trying to decide whether those two people are supposed to be fairies or woodland sprites.”