Her clutch buzzed. Saved her. The sharp sound cracked through Alexander Drake's words, gave her hands something to do besides tremble in plain sight. Emily fumbled, nearly dropped the damn thing, and finally pulled the phone out.
"Sorry—I have to…" Her excuse trailed, but she was already looking at the screen. Daniel.
Her stomach sank. Out of anyone who could potentially call right now.
She pressed answer. "Daniel?"
"Emily. Thank God." His voice—tight, urgent—shot straight through her chest. "Where are you?"
"I'm… at an event. Why?"
"What kind of event?" The tone sharpened. "Mom said gala. Please don't tell me you went to the Sterling Foundation thing."
Emily froze. She could feel Drake close behind her—too close—his presence heavy as shadow. His demeanor had changed when she took a chance to peek behind. Not amused now. Calculating. Listening.
"Daniel, I can't—"
"Emily." He cut her off. His breathing ragged on the line. Right now, you must leave if you're there. There are folks in that space who would gladly tear us apart once more for no reason.
Her throat dried. "What are you talking about?"
A pause. The sound of him drawing in air, bracing. "Alexander Drake."
The name hit her like ice water. To the point where her knuckles were sore, she gripped the phone tighter in her hand.
"He'll be there tonight," Daniel continued, urgent, low. "Promise me you won't go near him. He ruined Dad. Ruined us. That man's poison, Em. You are completely unaware of his capabilities.
Her eyes shut. Too late. "I know about Dad's company."
"You aren't aware of everything." Desperation now poured through Daniel's voice as it broke. "It wasn't random. It wasn't just business. He targeted us. It was personal. And if he finds out you're Dad's daughter—"
"He already knows."
Silence. Dead air. Like the call had cut.
Then Daniel, whisper-sharp: "What did you just say?"
"I… I met him tonight. I didn't recognize him at first, but—
"Jesus Christ." A hiss through clenched teeth. "Emily, get out. Now. Don't talk to him. Don't look at him. Don't even breathe near him. He's not just a rival—he's the reason we lost everything. You dropped out of school because of him. Mom—Dad—everything."
The line went dead.
Emily stood staring at the phone, the weight of Daniel's warning pressing like a stone in her stomach. Slowly, she turned.
Drake hadn't moved. Still watching her, head tilted like he'd just solved half a puzzle and was savoring the rest.
"Brother?" he asked, casual, almost lazy.
Her nod was stiff.
"He seems… concerned." His smile was razor-thin. "How thoughtful."
"He has reason," Emily whispered.
"I'm sure he does."
From his jacket, Drake pulled a black card—sleek, heavy, the kind that wasn't just contact info but a statement. He held it out between two fingers, steady as if refusal didn't exist in his universe.
"Sometimes family tries to protect us," he said, voice low, smooth as smoke. "Sometimes they only get in the way. Keep us from seeing opportunities."
She didn't take it. "What kind of opportunities?"
"The kind you don't stumble into twice. Power. Resources. Influence." His eyes locked on hers. "I could help you, Emily. Your center. Those children you fight for. Consider the possibilities with genuine support."
Her laugh cracked bitter in the air. "Help? You want to help me? The daughter of the man you destroyed?"
"I want to help a woman who has vision. Fire. Someone not afraid to stand in front of me and push back." He leaned in, too close, forcing her to lift her chin. "Your father made bad choices. That wasn't my fault."
Her brother's words burned. "Daniel said you targeted him. Said it was personal."
His expression changed momentarily, but it was too quick to discern. "Business is personal. Always. Your father stepped into my arena. He gambled. He lost."
The cruelty of it, so calm, almost bored—it slapped harder than shouting.
Emily's chest burned. Her voice shook. "If I were hungry, I wouldn't want to take your money."
"Even if it meant saving those children?" He pressed the card while it was still in the air. "Even if it meant that no one else had to go through the same ordeal as your family?"
For one split second, temptation whispered. The idea of classrooms being repaired, programs being supported, and families being kept afloat. But then—her father's face, gray and hollow. Her mother's silence. Daniel's broken voice in her ear.
"Especially then," she said.
Finally, Drake dropped his hand. But not the card. He slid it into her clutch in a single, fluid motion before she could respond.
"Keep it," he murmured. Steel under velvet. "When you get tired of fighting unwinnable battles, give me a call."
"I won't call."
That smile again. Patient. Predatory. "We'll see."
And then he was gone. Back into the golden noise of the ballroom, leaving her on the balcony, pulse screaming, card burning inside her purse.
Two hours blurred. She forced herself to work the room—smiling, pitching, locking down meetings. People listened. Promises were made. It should have been a victory.
But always, at the edges—him.
Never approaching. Never intruding. Just watching.
As she spoke with a philanthropist about after-school tutoring, those eyes would be fixed on her from across the room, making her stammer in the middle of her sentence. She'd laugh at Robert Sterling's jokes and feel the hairs at her neck prickle, knowing he was studying every move.
A hunt. That's what it was.
By the end, Emily was wrung out. Smiling mask slipping. Muscles aching.
Robert pushed his card into her hand along with warm words about stopping by the center. She thanked him, gathered her coat, purse. Elevator down. Street outside.
The October air cut sharp and clean, blessedly real compared to the suffocating ballroom heat. She stood on Fifth Avenue, arm raised, trying for a cab. Yellow lights rushed by like a stream, but none stopped.
Her feet screamed inside the borrowed shoes. Her head throbbed from champagne and tension. The rideshare app mocked her—forty minutes, triple the cost of her grocery budget.
She wanted home. Just home.
That's when the black Mercedes slid to the curb.
Windows tinted, body sleek and predatory. The back window whirred down. Drake's face appeared, sculpted by the glow of street lamps.
"Get in."
Not a request.
Emily stepped back. "No. I'm waiting for a cab."
"At midnight, on a Friday, in Manhattan?" His mouth curved. "You'll be waiting a long time."
"Then I'll wait."
The door opened. He stepped out. Taller out here, broader. The night appeared to embrace him.
"Emily," he said, softer now. Almost intimate. "You're cold. You're exhausted. And those shoes are killing you. Let me drive you home."
She swallowed, heart hammering. "So you can what? Kidnap me? Add me to your list of casualties?"
His laugh startled her—low, rich, genuine. Not mocking. "I wouldn't need a car to injure you."
It should've scared her. Maybe it did. But it didn't sound like a threat. It sounded… protective. Which made no sense at all.
Her body ached with fatigue. Her mind screamed don't. But the temptation to flee this sidewalk, her pulse, and her feet—"One ride," she said. "You drop me off, that's it."
"Of course."
And damn it, the look in his eyes said he'd already won.
She slipped into the car. Butter-soft leather. Warm light. His cologne saturating the air—dark, expensive, unsettling.
He slid behind the wheel himself. Not a driver. Him. Engine humming alive. "Where?"
She gave her Brooklyn address. If he thought less of it, his face gave nothing away. As if he had been born into it, he drove into traffic: smoothly, precisely, and slowly.
Silence. The city outside blurred neon and glass. Inside her purse, she had his card.
She didn't notice the stoplight until the car stalled still. She turned, expecting him focused ahead. Instead—his eyes were on her.
"What?" she asked.
"You're thinking very hard." His voice warm, dangerous. "Tell me."
Her temper flared past caution. "Just wondering how someone decides to ruin families for sport."
His jaw flexed. His grip on the wheel tightened. "Is that what you think I do?"
"Isn't it?"
Green light. The car moved again. His tone, flat: "I protect what's mine. Eliminate threats. Sometimes there's collateral damage." A shrug. Effortless. Cruel. "That's how the game is played."
"Collateral damage." Her throat burned. "Is that what my family was to you?"
Silence, long. Then: "Your father chose to compete. He knew the stakes."
"He was building something. For us."
"So was I. Difference is—I won."
Her nails dug into her palm. "You're proud of it."
"I'm proud of surviving." His eyes glinted. "Your father was weak. Not my fault."
"He was a good man."
"Good men rarely win."
Her voice was ash. "Then what does that make you?"
His smile cut. "Successful."
The rest of the drive swelled with silence thick as smoke.
Brooklyn rose up. Old warehouses, tired streets, home. Relief surged when she saw her building. She reached for the handle. It didn't move.
She tried again. Stuck.
"Child locks," he said, too calmly. "Habit."
Her chest seized. "Unlock the door."
"In a moment." He turned toward her fully now, body filling the car. Too close. "First, understand something."
"Unlock it, Alexander."
"You can hate me," he went on, voice like steel draped in velvet. "Blame me. Refuse me. Avoid me. None of that matters. Because you'll never be safe from me."
Her mouth dried. "What are you talking about?"
He leaned closer. Heat radiating, scent wrapping around her, eyes flecked with silver. "You have my attention, Emily Chen. And once I want something—" his voice dropped to a whisper "—I don't let go."
A soft click. Doors unlocked.
Her building waited just outside. Safety within reach. Yet she sat frozen, caught in his gaze, every nerve screaming.
Escape was right there. But she knew. Somewhere deep. Escape might not be possible anymore.
Because Alexander Drake had decided.
And men like him didn't hear no.