(Flashback – Two years before the merger)
It was the kind of evening that made the poor feel poor, and the rich feel like gods.
The Vale family's charity gala had always been the event of the season. Designed not to raise funds — but to raise necklines, eyebrows, and questions. Old money mingled with new ambition under gold-drenched ceilings and false smiles.
Ariella Vale stood alone near the edge of the ballroom, one hand around a glass of champagne she hadn't touched. She was twenty-five, dressed in a storm-grey gown with silver along the spine like a blade. Her mother had said she looked "too severe."
Ariella had smiled. "Good."
She didn't come to impress anyone. She came because skipping it would mean another week of guilt texts from her father.
Across the room, a laugh cut through the music — deep, smooth, male.
Girls in expensive dresses gathered near the bar, laughing too hard at nothing, all turning to one man.
Jeremiah King.
He was taller than she remembered from the tabloids. Dressed in black-on-black, crisp shirt undone just enough to break a few hearts. A watch on his wrist that probably cost more than some of the guests' homes.
He didn't even notice the girls. Barely spoke. Just watched.
Watched her.
She met his gaze once.
That was a mistake.
He left the crowd and started walking toward her.
She pretended not to notice.
He stopped right in front of her.
"Vale," he said simply.
"King," she replied, equally cool.
He looked her over once. Not lecherously. More like… he was reading her. Judging. Calculating.
Then, with no warning:
> "You're prettier in silence."
Her spine stiffened.
"I'm sorry?" she said, sweet but sharp.
He sipped his drink. "I've seen your interviews. Passionate. Idealistic. Loud." He smiled faintly. "But you look better when you're not speaking."
For a full second, the silence between them held — razor thin, stretched tight.
She blinked. Smiled. Stepped closer.
"And you look better in magazines," she whispered. "All airbrushed. Less punchable."
That earned her a low chuckle.
She hated that it sounded good.
Jeremiah tilted his head. "Tell me, Ms. Vale… do you practice being so difficult, or does it come naturally?"
She raised her glass, clinked it against his. "I was born difficult. Men like you just bring it out."
The words had a quiet violence to them.
And just like that, he was hooked.
He didn't show it. Not then. But in that moment, something shifted behind his eyes.
Interest.
Challenge.
Desire, maybe. Or something darker.
---
Later, she'd wonder why he'd picked her out of a room full of women practically melting at his feet. Why he didn't leave after the insult. Why he stood there, still talking.
But in that moment — they were just two heirs of empires, too powerful to play nice, too young to care.
And something in the way he looked at her… made her stomach twist.
Not in fear. Not in attraction.
In warning.