Taryn POV
Taryn had never been to a gala before. Not the kind with champagne towers and floor-length gowns, anyway. She'd worked a few, dancing behind screens, serving drinks in masks, slipping through shadows while the city's elite drowned in decadence.
But this time, she wasn't in the shadows. She was on Zane's arm, dressed in a Versace gown, an emerald green sheath that highlighted her eyes. Her hair was twisted into an elegant updo, courtesy of Zane's insistence on hiring a stylist to make sure her confidence was top-level.
Before they left, he'd insisted on taking photos of her, and had even enlisted Harris to take a few of them together.
Taryn had never been to prom. She felt a bit like she was reliving a part of her youth that had beTen stolen from her when her mother vanished and died. Taryn never dated. Not until later. She had other things occupying her time when other girls were gong to prom. Things she didn't want to talk about.
No one would believe it was her, if they could see her now. They said she would always be a loser. That she should be grateful for the attention.
Now, for the first time in her life, people weren't pretending she didn't exist. They were watching her. She'd wanted to say no to all of it, the car, the designer, the quiet pressure of being seen.
But Zane had said, "You don't have to perform. Just show up."
So she did. And as they stepped into the ballroom together, she realized something.
She wasn't afraid.
The event was for a nonprofit, one of Zane's pet projects that focused on housing reform. It was held at a museum with marble floors and vaulted ceilings, the kind of place that smelled like money and oil paint.
Everyone knew Zane, but no one knew her.
Yet. She was sure she would make an impression. She had a way of doing that, sometimes unintentionally.
She could feel the curiosity humming around them. She and Zane were the main topic of conversation. Eyes slid toward her with curiosity, calculation, and a few well-trained smiles. The whispers didn't bother her.
"Who is that?"
"What family is she from?"
"I heard she is some dancer he hired and moved in to his penthouse. That can't be true," said one refined looking woman, loud enough for Taryn to hear. She smirked when Taryn met her eyes, but the smirk quickly faded when Taryn refused to look away.
She'd been whispered about her whole life. Whoever this woman was, she wasn't going to allow herself to be intimidated.
"Let them talk," Zane squeezed her arm, offering reassurance.
Her heart was racing, because when Zane introduced her, never as a guest, or a friend, or some vague, polite title. Instead, he simply said, "This is Taryn." it became clear she wasn't temporary.
She was his.
And from the way he looked at her… she realized something dangerous and exhilarating.
He was hers too.
They made it through the speeches and the polite applause. The dinner was good, the conversation tolerable. Zane charmed effortlessly when he had to, but mostly he stayed close, checking on her with small touches and quiet glances noticed by more than just Taryn,
At one point, he leaned in and whispered, "You're stealing the room."
She rolled her eyes. "That's your line."
"Not tonight." He smiled, a smile that reached his eyes. He had never looked so devastatingly handsome, and her mind wandered to what they might be up to later.
When the lights dimmed and the violins gave way to soft jazz, Zane took her hand and led her onto the floor. He wasn't much of a dancer—they'd established that. But she didn't care.
He moved like he trusted her to guide him. He let her lead.
They swayed, slow and steady, not a show but a conversation. Every step, every brush of fingers, was quiet proof that they were real, not some fragile illusion protected by penthouse walls.
"I never thought I'd like this," she murmured.
"Like what?" He whispered against her ear, causing her to shiver.
"Being seen, with someone."
Zane's hand tightened slightly on her waist. "You're more than seen."
She met his eyes. "I know."
And then, like some cliché out of a movie, the ballroom doors opened and everyone was invited onto the terrace to watch the fireworks display over the city skyline.
Taryn followed Zane through the crowd, champagne in one hand, the hem of her dress gathered in the other.
Outside, the sky opened with gold and violet bursts. The crowd oohed and ahhed on cue. Zane stood behind her, arms around her waist, chin resting on top of her head.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
Which was why her stomach dropped when she turned her head slightly and saw the man across the terrace.
Not a guest. Not press. Not a server.
He stood just beyond the gate, outside the velvet ropes, in the space where the crowd bled into the night.
He wore a dark shirt, and a darker smile. It was brief. One heartbeat, maybe two. But she saw him.
And he saw her.
Then, like he'd never been there, he was gone. She turned to Zane, her eyes wide with terror.
"I saw him," she whispered, voice hollow.
Zane froze.
"Where?"
She pointed. "He's gone now but he was there. It was him." She was certain. She wouldn't let doubt creep in.
And the fireworks kept on exploding, pretending the world hadn't just tilted off its axis.
Zane POV
The second she said the words, 'I saw him', Zane's heartbeat shifted from calm to combat.He didn't ask her if she was sure or look to the shadows for confirmation. He took action.
Within fifteen seconds, Harris was at his side. Within thirty, four of Zane's private security had peeled discreetly away from the crowd, spreading out toward the perimeter.
Zane scanned the terrace, the crowd, the gate Taryn had pointed to. She was right, someone had been standing there. He could feel it in the air. The aftermath of something wrong. A presence recently vanished.
"Taryn," he said without turning. "Go inside."
She didn't argue. That told him how shaken she really was.
Harris fell in beside him.
"Visual contact?" he asked, tone clipped.
"Not mine. Hers. Gate near the south terrace. Male. Watching."
"Understood. Already pulling footage. I've got men locking the service exit and elevators now."
Zane nodded. "I want this building ghost-proofed in fifteen minutes."
Harris tapped his earpiece. "Done."
Zane turned, glanced back through the glass doors.
Taryn was inside now, standing off to the side near the champagne bar, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her face was pale, eyes still scanning. She looked like someone waiting to be dragged back under. Zane wasn't going to let that happen.
By the time they made it back to the penthouse, it was nearly midnight. The gala ended early under the vague excuse of "unforeseen security concerns."
Zane didn't speak much on the ride home. Neither did Taryn. She sat with her arms folded, her expression a fortress. He didn't push. She would talk when she was ready.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and started making silent calls.
Not to Harris. Not to PR.
To his other people. The ones whose names didn't exist in any digital system. The ones who owed him favors with no strings attached.
If Charles Collins had crawled out of his hiding place, Zane would burn every shadow in the city to the ground to find him.
Back in the penthouse, Harris was already waiting with a tablet and two cups of coffee neither of them would drink.
"We pulled two camera angles," Harris said. "One caught movement at the gate, but the lens glared during the fireworks. You can't see his face."
Zane took the tablet. Played it.
The frame shook slightly with crowd movement. At the edge of the light, just beyond the decorative fence, a shape moved, paused, and then vanished.
"You think he came for her?" Harris asked.
"No," Zane said. "Not yet. He came to remind her."
"To shake her."
"To test me," Zane said.
Harris frowned. "You think he wants you involved?"
"No," Zane said, eyes dark. "He wants me distracted."
Harris exhaled through his nose. "We'll keep cameras on her twenty-four hours a day. No blind spots. If this guy shows his face again, he's as good as dead."
"We don't wait for him to show," Zane interrupted. "We find him first."
Harris gave a sharp nod and left.
He found Taryn in the bedroom.
She'd changed out of the gown and into one of his shirts, curled on top of the comforter with her knees drawn up. She didn't look up when he walked in.
"I didn't imagine it," she said quietly.
"I know."
"I didn't panic."
"I know that too."
She finally turned her head. "You believe me?"
"I always believe you."
A breath escaped her, relief and exhaustion in one. Zane sat at the edge of the bed. He didn't touch her.
"I need you to know something," he said.
She looked up.
"This isn't just about protecting you anymore. I'm not thinking like a bodyguard. I'm thinking like a man who's already lost too much."
Her eyes searched his.
"I'm not losing you," he said. "Not to him. Not to fear. Not to the past."
Taryn sat up. "Then we fight."
Zane gave the ghost of a smile. They were past surviving now. They were playing the game, believing they could win.