The Rosemont Hotel glimmered like a jewel box against the city's skyline, its marble façade lit gold by floodlights. The valet lane was a slow-moving parade of black sedans, polished sports cars, and the kind of vintage vehicles only old money could keep running flawlessly.
From the backseat of his car, Damien watched the crowd filtering into the grand entrance. He'd been to countless events here in his former life, back when the name Damien Kane was spoken with admiration or envy. Tonight, he arrived as Adrian Vale—an outsider with impeccable credentials and no history anyone could trace.
The driver opened his door, and the soft December air carried the mingled scents of cologne, champagne, and fresh roses from the towering arrangements inside. He stepped out, his tuxedo a deep, classic black, tailored to perfection, his cufflinks understated silver.
He didn't smile.
Inside, the ballroom spread out in a sweep of polished marble and cascading chandeliers. The lighting was warm but precise—enough to flatter, not enough to hide. A string quartet played near the stage, their bows moving in perfect unison, each note carefully cultivated to say: You are among the elite here.
Damien scanned the crowd with a predator's ease. Julian was here, of course—laughing too loudly near the central champagne fountain, his hand already clasped on the shoulder of tonight's prize: Harrison Ward, a venture capitalist whose influence could swing a Kane Industries vote in Julian's favor. Ward was the sort of man who thought himself immune to charm—until the right man convinced him otherwise.
Damien intended to make sure that man would not be Julian.
Elise Carter was already in position, a vision in emerald silk that made her blend seamlessly with the board members' wives. She caught Damien's eye across the room and tilted her champagne flute almost imperceptibly toward the east wing doors. That was where Ward would take his mid-evening calls, away from the noise. Damien gave the faintest nod before he began to move.
He didn't approach Ward immediately; that would be obvious. Instead, he allowed himself to drift through the space, shaking a few hands, offering the kind of polite, meaningless conversation that kept him invisible.
That's when he saw her.
It was nothing more than a flicker at first—an impression of movement, the pale shimmer of silk the color of moonlight. But then the crowd shifted, and his gaze landed on her fully.
She stood near one of the tall windows, her posture composed, hands loosely clasped in front of her, as though she were there only out of obligation. Her hair caught the light in subtle waves, and her gown skimmed her frame with effortless grace. She was beautiful, yes—but beauty was common here. What struck him was the way her eyes moved. Not darting nervously, not scanning for advantage, but quietly measuring the room, as if she were keeping a private tally no one else could see.
He knew her face. Or thought he did. Somewhere in the haze of his past life, he remembered a younger version of her—smiling at a charity dinner, perhaps, or sitting beside her sister at a shareholders' luncheon.
She turned slightly, and their eyes met.
It was the briefest contact—two seconds, maybe three—but in that time something unspoken passed between them. Not recognition, exactly. More like… awareness.
Then she looked away, smoothing the fabric at her hip, her expression serene.
Damien resumed moving through the crowd, but his mind kept circling back to her. The name came to him after a moment: daughter of the Rothwell family. Old money, deep ties to the Kanes. The elder sister had always been the family's public jewel—gracious, sweet, but sheltered. He remembered the way she'd look at him during board dinners, her blush as delicate as the pearls she wore.
And yes—there she was now, across the room, the elder Rothwell sister, standing beside Julian and laughing politely at something Harrison Ward said. The younger sister—the one in silver—lingered a few paces back, as though by choice.
He might have dismissed it as nothing, but he caught the way her gaze flickered toward him again when she thought no one was watching. There was a weight to it. A question, maybe. Or an accusation.
The night moved on in waves of polite applause and carefully staged speeches. When the moment was right, Damien slipped into the east wing corridor, the air quieter, cooler here. A minute later, Harrison Ward came striding through, phone in hand.
Ward spotted Damien and smiled faintly. "Vale, isn't it? We met at the Weston auction."
"Indeed," Damien said, his tone warm but unhurried. "I hear you've been spending time with the Kanes."
Ward chuckled. "Julian's a talker, I'll give him that."
"Talker," Damien repeated lightly, as though tasting the word. "And yet I imagine you're here for something more substantial than conversation."
It was a dance, and Damien led it perfectly—offering a hint here, a well-timed pause there. He let Ward do most of the talking, feeding him just enough doubt about Julian's competence to plant a seed. Elise had told him precisely which of Ward's past ventures had soured; Damien drew subtle parallels without ever stating them outright.
By the time Ward's phone buzzed again, his smile had thinned. "You give a man a lot to think about, Vale."
"That's all I ask," Damien said smoothly.
Back in the ballroom, the shift was immediate. Ward rejoined Julian, listened to him for less than a minute, then excused himself to speak to another group. Julian's smile froze, then faltered.
Damien didn't linger to watch the fallout; that would be crude. Instead, he drifted toward the far side of the room, and that's when she appeared again—the younger Rothwell.
This time she was nearer, close enough for him to notice the subtle tremor in her breathing. Her sister was speaking to an older couple, oblivious to her sibling's absence from the conversation.
Damien considered acknowledging her, just to satisfy the question forming in his mind. But before he could, she glanced toward him—directly, without hesitation—and there it was again: that strange, knowing look.
As if she saw more than the mask he wore.
A waiter passed between them, and when the space cleared, she had turned away, guiding her sister gently toward another group.
The rest of the night played out like any other gala: too much champagne, too many speeches, and far too many false smiles. But the rhythm of his thoughts had shifted. The victory over Julian was satisfying, yes—but it was not complete.
Because somewhere between the first champagne toast and his quiet exit through the service corridor, Damien found himself wondering not just how the Rothwell family might be used in his plans… but why their younger daughter looked at him like she already knew the ending to a story he hadn't finished writing.