Emily stayed frozen longer than she should have, eyes locked on the retreating figure of Alexander Drake. His shoulders—broad, deliberate—cut through the crowd like water parting. Her own pulse was still misbehaving, thudding against her ribs. And that single touch on her chin—barely a second—still burned, as if it had branded her.
Around her, the gala carried on. Music swelled, champagne flowed, laughter floated. Yet whispers spread sharp and fast.
"Did you see that?"
"—never seen anyone talk to him like that—"
"—who even is she?"
With shaking hands, Emily adjusted the front of her dress. Pretend normal. Pretend steady. Pretend she hadn't just been spun inside out by thirty seconds of unwanted electricity.
She needed space. Air. Somewhere her skin could stop buzzing.
The balcony—yes. The windows were from floor to ceiling, and outside was Central Park, a serene, gloomy ocean. October air. Crisp. Exactly what her brain needed to reset.
She slipped through the crowd, weaving between tuxedos and gowns, but conversations kept snagging her attention.
"—Blackstone Industries, gone in six months—"
"—he acquired Harrison's business only to dismiss him himself—"
"—never forgives. You cross him, you're finished—"
Emily slowed near a group of older men in tailored suits. She pretended to admire a painting, ear tilted.
"Remember Michael Chen's business?" one said, voice low but not low enough. "Drake crushed it. Overnight. I heard the daughter even had to leave Columbia—couldn't afford tuition anymore."
The name hit like an axe. Michael Chen.
Her father.
Her blood iced.
"Ruthless doesn't begin to cover it," another murmured, swirling brandy. "He doesn't just win. He annihilates. And he likes it."
Emily's stomach turned. Her father had only ever said there were "complications." That the market had shifted. That they'd had to make "hard choices." She'd believed him. Bad luck. The economy. A small business casualty.
But now—this. This deliberate cruelty. Her father's sudden gray hair. His silence at the dinner table. The way her mother had quietly started doubling shifts to keep food steady on the shelves.
It was him. Alexander Drake.
Her chest twisted. She had flirted with the man who had gutted her family.
The nausea drove her forward, faster, until she found the balcony doors cracked open. She slipped outside.
The city greeted her—Central Park sprawled below, the rest of Manhattan flickering endlessly in all directions. Millions of windows, millions of stories. None of them caring that forty-two floors up, her world had just cracked.
Emily gripped the cold marble railing. Breathed. In. Out. She needed to leave. Before she did something spectacularly stupid like storm back inside and scream his name across the room.
"Running away so soon?"
She spun.
The light from the ballroom created a halo around Drake as he stood at the entrance. The stained jacket was gone; his shirt, unbuttoned just enough, revealed the line of his throat. His presence filled the terrace, made the wide-open night suddenly claustrophobic.
"I'm not running," Emily said. Her voice betrayed her anyway, breathy. "Just… getting air."
He stepped closer, casual, dangerous. "Of course. Anyone would need a break after a performance like that."
Her brows snapped together. "Performance?"
"The shy routine. The righteous outrage. Very convincing." His tone was velvet edged with steel.
"You think I was acting?"
"I think," he said, lowering his voice until it brushed against her skin, "you knew exactly who I was. And you've been planning this."
The accusation landed like a slap. "You arrogant—"
"Realistic," he interrupted, closing the distance by another step. "How many staged 'accidents' do I see?" How many women think a stumble or a spilled drink will get my attention?"
Her hands curled into fists. "Not everything revolves around you, Mr. Drake. Some of us have actual problems."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Annoyance? Interest?
"Then why are you here?"
"Since you are spending more money on dinner than what some families earn in a year, someone must care for the children who are going hungry."
His lips curved, but not kindly. "How noble. And you think guilt should steer me?"
"I think you should be ashamed of the way you acquired your riches."
The words hung between them. Her chest heaved, fury mixing with fear.
His gaze sharpened. His voice dropped, warning soft as a knife. "Careful, Emily. You're standing on dangerous ground."
Her chin lifted. "What are you going to do? Destroy my life? Too late. You already did."
The city was filled with the sound of silence.
Then footsteps. Another presence.
A man approached—tall, blond, immaculate. His smile was polished but predatory.
"Alexander. There you are."
Drake's whole frame shifted, danger redirecting instantly. "Marcus." The name cracked from him like ice. "I thought you were in London."
"Got back this morning. Miss Robert's tiny circus was not to be missed." Marcus grinned at Emily.
Emily's throat tightened, but she forced steadiness. "Emily Chen. Riverside Community Center."
"Marcus Blackwood." He took her hand, held it far too long. "Pleasure. Is there anything stronger I can get you than champagne?"
"That's not—" she began.
"Nonsense." He snapped his fingers for a waiter. "Too beautiful to waste your night on business with Alexander. He's dreadful at parties."
Drake moved. Subtle, precise. One step forward and suddenly Emily was behind him. "Miss Chen makes her own choices."
The tension snapped tight. The two men—predator circling predator.
"Actually," Emily cut in, heart pounding, "I should head back in. People to meet—"
"Of course." Marcus's smile sharpened. "I imagine men line up for your attention."
"Marcus."
The single word from Alexander could have frozen rivers.
But Marcus pressed on, stepping closer to her. "What do you like to do to amuse yourself, Emily? When you're not saving the world?"
And then it happened.
Although it looked light, Alexander's hand landed on Marcus's shoulder, and Emily could see the iron in it. Marcus stiffened.
"I think," Drake said softly, "that's enough."
Marcus's grin cracked. "Just making conversation."
"Find another."
It wasn't loud. But the command left no air in the space around them.
Marcus adjusted his tie, recovering his mask. "Of course. Emily, lovely to meet you. I'm sure we'll talk again."
His smile lingered too long before he disappeared back inside.
Silence. Traffic hummed below. Emily discovered that she couldn't breathe because something was blocking her airway.
"Thank you," she said finally. Politeness drilled into her since childhood. Even if she wasn't completely certain of what she intended.
Drake turned. His eyes—darker now, edged with something unreadable. "Don't thank me. Not yet. You've no idea what you've stepped into."
Her chest tightened. "What does that mean?"
He stepped closer again. She could detect traces of silver in his eyes, smell the strong perfume, and feel the heat emanating from him.
"Men like Marcus," he whispered, "don't give up." You've caught his attention. He'll see you as a prize."
"I can handle myself," she said, though the words cracked.
His smile was blade-sharp. "Can you? You nearly drowned me in champagne within five minutes. You think you can survive Marcus Blackwood's games?"
Her temper sparked. "I don't want anyone's games. I just want to work. And go home."
"Too late," he murmured. He stroked her hair with his hand towards her ear. Tender. Possessive. Both. "You're in my world now. In my world, I have rules that everyone obeys."
A shiver laced down her spine, equal parts fear and something she didn't dare name.
"And if I don't?" she whispered.
His smile widened, feral. "Then you'll learn why everyone else does."