The audience clapped harder when the award for best finance leader was given to Zeel Nair from Tessara Company, a global beast in the textile industry. Cameras flashed as she gave a cute little speech and dedicated the award.
The atmosphere was charged with power, expensive scents that clung to tailored suits, intimidating vibes, and a dose of eloquence. It was almost blinding.
This was the World Business Summit, after all—an event that rotated countries like collectibles and pulled in CEOs, founders, industry titans, and empire builders like moths to a very exclusive flame. It wasn't just about honouring achievement. It was about recognizing power—the kind of raw, relentless drive that built companies from nothing and burned through competition like wildfire.
And beneath all the handshakes, awards, and speeches, it was also about strategy. Who knew who? Who remembered your face? Who wanted to partner—and who wanted to own you?
It was a kingdom, and tonight, all its monarchs were in the room. Including the rogue underdogs who had clawed their way to the top.
Danica—who was sitting in one of the front seats—appeared terrifyingly beautiful as always. Her lashes were long and dark, dangerously so, fanning over eyes that held zero tolerance for incompetence and even less for flattery. Sleek obsidian hair spilled down her back, perfectly styled to match the dark bottle-green bandage dress that clung to her body like it knew its place. Every angle, every curve, every line of her was designed to make people look and envy it. A glittering emerald-toned flower—oversized and dramatic—sat perched on her shoulder like a statement of intent. Her pearl necklace crowned her throat, drawing attention to collarbones carved from the kind of genes you wanted to hate but couldn't stop staring at. She looked no less than a sin wrapped in silk—untouchable, irresistible, and unapologetically dominant.
"It is now the time," the host chirped in a practiced tone. "To announce individual awards of the year."
Paul had crossed his fingers so tight they turned white. His lips moved silently as if he was casting a spell.
"What are you doing? Calling a Satan?" His friend (the one who almost got him fired a few days ago by making him spill the tea about his job role as Danica's manager) whispered in. "Because if so, tell him I say hi."
"Shut up," Paul threw him an annoyed look. "It's called manifesting."
"Oh. Cute," his friend, Mr. Lee, nodded solemnly. "So, when do we sacrifice the intern?"
"If Danica doesn't win, I'm sacrificing you."
"Why not its—"
"I would like to call upon stage," The host's flattery voice interrupted their petty conversation. "Mr. Yuvaan Grewaal, the president of Sauvé, to give this award."
Across the ballroom, Yuvaan Grewaal ascended the stage with the same energy Paul imagined ancient kings had when conquering continents: dark, broody, and terrifyingly put-together.
The man wasn't just attractive. He was dangerously capable—a business demigod dipped in obsidian and moodiness, known as much for building empires as he was for dodging romantic commitment with the precision of a trained sniper. Honestly, it was rude how much he resembled Danica. He was what you'd get if Danica cloned herself and upgraded the model to include double stealth mode.
"What makes him so attractive?" Mr. Lee observed out loud. "Is it the class that he carries or is it the fact that he is so unbothered? I mean, why would someone want to stay single for his whole life?"
"He might have a solid reason." Paul's knuckles went even more white.
"Like what? Catching feelings? Or worse—producing an heir and being emotionally available?"
That earned him a squint.
"Why are you so interested in Mr. Grewaal? Are you perhaps into men? Tell me that your nipples are literally poking through that cream-white shirt as if they're trying to RSVP to the afterparty and your cock is all—"
"Shut the fuck up." Lee protested, barely restraining himself from punching him straight in the face.
"That means you are," Paul teased, smiling. "Don't worry. You're not the only one. Yuvaan Grewaal has universal sex appeal. Men. Women. Probably kitchen appliances."
"I am not gay." Lee emphasized. "Sometimes I just like to fantasize about Danica marrying him. It makes sense. She's intense. He's intense. They'd probably argue over who broods better while doing taxes on their honeymoon."
Paul scoffed. "No, they are not. That would be devastating and a terrible match. They're too similar. It'd be like two black holes colliding. They'd cancel each other out. It's science. Why do you always root for the wrong ship?"
"Says the man who once upon a time sexted his father instead of the fling."
Paul turned a shade of hot red usually reserved for fire extinguishers and tomatoes with low self-esteem. "That was a technical error. TECH–NI–CAL."
"Sure," Lee's smirk went wider. "I'm sure your dad really appreciated the 'Can't wait to see what's under that tie ;)' message."
"This happened million years ago when I was a young blood." Paul stopped for a second before emphasizing, "And fun fact: It was meant for Maya. The M and D keys are very close on the keyboard."
Lee's eyebrows flew up. "And yet galaxies apart when it comes to not sexting your father."
Paul looked as if he was actively fighting the urge to commit best-friendicide. His eyes twitched and his jaw flexed, all in testament to his self-control.
"If you don't shut up—"
"So, the next award is for—" A voice (again) sliced through their conversation. This time it was oceanic deep that snapped their attention back to the stage. "—Businesswoman of the Year."
Mr. Yuvaan Grewaal stood tall at the podium, scanning the paper in his hand like it personally offended him. The host beside him blushed so hard, she nearly glowed in the dark. Paul mentally handed her a glass of water and told her to breathe.
"Goes to…" Yuvaan continued. His smile flickered for a fraction of a second—blink and you'd miss it. "My friend, Ms. Danica Clarke of Dominion Group."
The room erupted into claps, cheers, and the delicate clinking of champagne flutes. Somewhere, probably, a harp strummed and a very smug angel earned its wings.
Paul shot up in his seat and let out a celebratory whistle loud enough to stun a pigeon.
"YEEES!" he shouted, forgetting momentarily that this was a black-tie event and not the Super Bowl.
Beside him, his friend was fake-dabbing at his eyes with the edge of a cloth napkin. "Our boss did it. She did it. I feel like I just gave birth."
Paul didn't even flinch. He was too busy watching her.
The flashes of cameras intensified as Danica ascended the stage in all glory and charisma. She didn't smile, but just offered a respectful nod when she received an award from Mr. Grewaal. And the flashes? They doubled—blinding, relentless—as if the world couldn't get enough of witnessing yet another Danica Clarke's milestone being etched into history. The host, clearly flustered in the face of her presence, handed her the mic with trembling hands.
"This award…" Danica expressed, attempting to plaster a smile and failing at it. "…this belongs to my parents, my incredible team, and the few friends who've stuck with me through the chaos. None of this would've been possible without them. And to every woman out there who's struggling to be seen, heard, respected—this is for you too. You're not alone. You never were." A beat later. "Thank you so much."
The audience continued to applaud when she exited the stage and returned to her seat, unbothered by the praise.
___________________________
It was time to say goodbye to Milan and head back to the States. The once-lavish hall—still echoing faint traces of laughter, champagne toasts, and deals whispered over expensive scotch—was now eerily quiet. The World Business Summit had wrapped, and with it, the steady hum of power suits and perfume-drenched ambition had all but vanished.
Danica moved briskly through the marble corridor, one hand lifting the hem of her glittering gown as it trailed dramatically behind her. Her stride was faster than usual because her phone had already buzzed three times with missed calls from her team, who were currently waiting outside in a black limo.
She was one heel-click away from the exit. And then —
"Seriously?" She muttered bitingly as a waiter, balancing a tray with what appeared to be the saddest half-eaten slice of cheesecake in Milan, came out of nowhere and collided straight into her side.
The whipped cream exploded across her glitter-studded dress like some sort of dairy-based crime scene.
"Oh, for the love of—" she hissed, stepping back and staring down at the now-violated couture.
"I... I'm really sorry!" The poor waiter stammered, already looking as if he was preparing his resume and an apology bouquet. "I didn't see—I was just running off to—"
"That's okay." She forced a nonchalant look.
On any other day, the waiter would've been scrubbing marble with a toothbrush and self-loathing, banned from food and forgiveness until her fury cooled—which, statistically, took at least twenty-four hours and two rage-fuelled workouts. But tonight? Let's just say, it was his lucky day.
Danica barely spared him a glare before he bolted, nodding tight no less than a man just spared a guillotine.
She wasn't going to leave the place like this, resembling someone who'd just been sucker punched by a dessert. A fatal wound, if you asked her pride. She immediately took a U-turn and went straight into the restroom to clear the mess.
"This is ridiculous," she gritted out, wiping the last trace of cream disaster smeared down her front. "Of all the nights…"
Danica dabbed the stain one more time with water and rubbed harder before reaching out to grab a handkerchief from her purse—only to hit empty air.
"Fuck!" The word escaped on a hiss. "Where is my purse?"
A new problem.
Universe couldn't be more generous.
Annoyed to the core, she stomped out of the restroom and arrived at the once-lavish hall. The lights were dim now, the laughter gone, and the stage abandoned and hollow. Tables half-cleared. Chairs pushed back and forgotten. It was a graveyard of glamour, and her purse was somewhere in it, mocking her.
She mentally retraced every step, every glance, every shadowy corner she might have passed through—trying to recall where her purse could've or might have been. The ballroom, now hauntingly quiet, offered no clues. She knelt beside chairs with crushed velvet seats, peeked under white linen-covered buffet tables, and scanned the edges of the abandoned podium where hours ago, the spotlight belonged to her. Her fingers skimmed over satin ribbons, stray napkins, and—
"Are you looking for this?" A voice—deep, masculine, and slow enough to abrade against her nerves like a dark promise—broke through her quest.
She jerked upright and turned around, spine straightening with instinctive sharpness. Her gaze fell immediately on a large, calloused palm that cradled her golden-strapped purse like something forbidden.
"Oh my god, here you are." She promptly snatched it back from his hand and sighed before slowly lifting her gaze from his palm, calloused and large, up the tailored line of his coat. Across his broad chest—where fabric stretched just slightly over muscle. Up the thick column of his throat, where his Adam's apple bobbed with a single swallow.
And then… his face.
The man was murderously gorgeous.
Tall. Unreasonably tall. At least six-four. Dressed in a midnight-blue suit that looked like it was stitched out of sin and old money. His shoulders were broad enough to block out common sense. His features were chiseled and symmetrical, as if he'd been crafted by a sculptor with a god complex. Hair styled to perfection except for one rogue strand that fell over his forehead like an intentional flaw, and eyebrows dark enough to frame eyes that held nothing but shadows and hunger. And his smile was infectious enough to make her lips reflexively curl.
God, she hated that.
Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots, every muscle coiled tight with restraint. She refused to react—had to refuse—because acknowledging the temptation in front of her would be nothing short of catastrophic. A capital-D disastrous. And Danica had already survived enough wreckage to know better.
An abrupt noise startled her from the staring contest. A groaning camera overhead re-shifted as the crew backstage packed up. The light swung, tilted, and spilled directly over him like moonlight over a demon's altar.
It illuminated every inch of him. From his commanding eyes, to the broad rise of his chest, to the gleam of tension in his jaw. As if the universe was intentionally showcasing the man who had just branded her night with chaos and charm.
"Thank you." Danica swallowed the heat in her throat, avoiding his build, his smile, and the stupidity of it all.
"Wasn't much. I just returned what was already yours." He shrugged.
The way he said yours almost made her knees give.
What the eff is wrong with my body? She mused bitterly.
Danica's mind screamed urgency, every cell reminding her that if she didn't leave now, she'd risk losing the billion-dollar deal waiting across the Atlantic. But her body? Her body had the audacity to hesitate. To freeze. To defy the panic thrumming like war drums in her chest. Move, she reminded herself. Now. But all she could do was stand there, pulse racing, while dread curled around her spine like serpent. Damn it.
"And congratulations," he added, smooth and infuriatingly warm, before she could remember how words worked. "You won the honour. That's quite phenomenal achievement, I must say."
Danica riposted. "It seems like you are new to the industry otherwise, you'd know better than to congratulate me. I win Businesswoman of the Year every time I so much bother to show up."
He let out a short scoff, equal parts amusement and awe, as if he hadn't expected the bite beneath her beauty.
"Or maybe," Danica continued in a haughty tone. "You do know that, and you're just exceptionally good at pretending. I can say—"
But her words faded into white noise, swallowed by the moment, because he wasn't hearing them anymore.
He was busy tattooing every inch of her into his brain.
His gaze couldn't help but study the way her lips curved—precise, devastating. The glint in her almond eyes resembled fireworks dazzling in middle of night, mesmerizing enough to make him forget the pain. The way her lashes fluttered in a lazy and wicked way. Lethal. And that cleavage—elegant, exposed just enough beneath emerald silk—was enough to send his thoughts straight into forbidden territory.
Found you.The one. His gaze burned through her—unrelenting, and impossible to ignore. She's everything I never believed I could want or need. Power. Fire. The kind of woman who could ruin me, and I'd let her.This… this is what they mean by love at first sight. Or maybe obsession. Either way, I'm not letting it go.
"Impressive." He somehow managed to jostle himself back into the conversation. "What business do you run?"
"Product marketing."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Interestingly, I run a few businesses myself. Product marketing happens to be one of them."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not enough to be rude, but enough to make it clear she wasn't easily impressed.
"That's… convenient," she replied in a clipped tone.
Liar. The thought flared hot in her skull. Nobody 'happens' to run multiple businesses without breaking. Not unless they were faking it or ruthless or possibly both.
She offered a polite nod, hiding the suspicion beneath a soft curve of her mouth. But inside, she was already filing him under possible threat.
He examined her for one fiery second before throwing a brave act, "Can I have the privilege of your contact info? I'd love to explore a potential business collaboration in the future."
There it was—the line. The fork in the road. The temptation wrapped in logic.
Should I? Her mind was calculating risk. I've never given my number to a man I didn't vet six ways to hell. This… this would be wrong and reckless.
"You can have my email." She blurted out. What the holy—!? No.
The worst part? Words were irreversible. And now—because her mouth had a mind of its own—she had to give him her damn email that felt a little too close to personal, a little too close to vulnerability. And she did. Slowly and reluctantly, but she did.
He accepted it with the poise of someone used to getting what he wanted and offered his in return.
"I need to leave." She finally admitted it. Hope we never meet again.
"Hope we'll meet again." He said and offered his hand as if the universe would dare argue with him.
She reached for it slowly. Their palms touched, and for one suspended second, it felt as if everything shifted.
Let's not cross any lines, she told herself, swallowing the heat that threatened to rise. Stay professional, cold, and always careful.
Their hands broke apart, but the phantom of his touch straggled on her skin like a constellation of scars she refused to acknowledge. Danica didn't pause or dither. She lifted her dress with the grace of a crowned executioner and walked out of the hall.
She didn't look back. There was no part of her that craved the softness of a final glance, no need to offer him the illusion of something tender or sacred. She wasn't a damsel, and this sure as hell wasn't a fairy tale. Neither she was Cinderella mourning the clock's betrayal. No. She was the storm in wine-red lipstick and stilettos—the kind of dangerous you didn't notice until it was already shattering you from the inside out.
You're mine, he mused, watching her leave. You just don't know it yet. But you will. And I'll make you say it. Out loud. Breathless. On your knees.
And he made one silent, obstinate resolve. No matter what it takes. I'll make you mine.