Ava arrived at the office at 6:45 AM, fifteen minutes early. Early had become her new habit—ever since the "standing punishment."
Colette was already waiting in the private styling suite. Garment bags hung neatly on racks, jewelry cases sparkled under the lights, and what looked like an entire mobile salon had been set up across the room.
"Ah, perfect timing," Colette said, her French accent crisp in the morning stillness. "We have much work to do."
"Work?" Ava looked around, her apprehension growing with every gleaming brush and polished box she saw.
"The Rothschild Foundation Gala is not just any event, chérie." Colette's eyes sharpened as she studied Ava from head to toe. "It is where New York's elite come to see and be seen. Tonight, you represent not just Mr. Drake, but the entire image of this company." She folded her arms. "We must make sure you are… flawless."
The next three hours blurred together. Ava sat, stood, turned, tilted her chin—submitting to the stylists as if part of some ritual.
A hairdresser worked with hot tools and fragrant sprays, sculpting her usual waves into an elegant updo with soft tendrils left loose around her face. A makeup artist layered foundation, contour, and highlight with the precision of a painter creating a masterpiece.
And then came the dress.
When Colette finally unzipped the garment bag, Ava's breath caught.
The gown shimmered like liquid midnight—sometimes navy, sometimes black, depending on the light. The silk slipped across her skin like water. Its fitted bodice hugged her shape before flowing into an A-line skirt that pooled gracefully at her feet. The neckline was modest, but the delicate beadwork at the waist glimmered like captured starlight.
"This must cost more than I make in a year," Ava whispered, afraid even to touch it.
"Mr. Drake has exquisite taste," Colette said smoothly. "And the jewelry…" She opened a velvet case with a flourish, revealing a diamond necklace that made Ava's heart stop. "On loan from Cartier, of course."
When the necklace was fastened at her throat, Ava turned toward the mirror—and froze.
The woman staring back was a stranger. Elegant. Sophisticated. A vision that looked more suited to magazine covers than quarterly reports. The dress sculpted her, the makeup sharpened her features, and the diamonds glittered like they belonged to her.
"I don't look like me," she murmured.
"You look like yourself," Colette corrected gently, "but perhaps the version of yourself you never knew existed."
A knock at the door cut through the moment. Colette glanced at her watch, then smiled. "Perfect timing. That will be Mr. Drake."
Ava's stomach tightened. She turned just as the door opened—and her breath caught again, for an entirely different reason.
Lucien stepped into the room.
She'd seen him in suits every day for weeks. But this… this was different. His tuxedo was the one she'd collected from Savile & Co.—perfectly tailored, impossibly sharp. The black fabric framed his shoulders, his height, his precision. The crisp white shirt and bow tie gave him the kind of polish that made other men fade in comparison.
But it wasn't the tuxedo that made Ava's knees weaken.
It was the way he looked at her.
His dark eyes swept her from head to toe, lingering on every detail of her transformation. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Something flickered in his gaze—something hot, restrained, dangerous—that made heat curl low in her stomach.
He said nothing at first. Just stared, as though the sight of her had stripped language from him.
"Perfect," he said finally. His voice was lower, rougher than usual.
He crossed the space slowly, and Ava held her breath. When he reached her, he didn't offer praise or instructions. He simply extended his arm. The gesture was old-world, elegant—and yet unmistakably possessive.
"Shall we?"
The storm was still there in his eyes, though his tone had slipped back into control.
The ride to the Plaza was wrapped in silence, thick with unspoken tension. Ava sat rigidly beside him, hyperaware of every detail: the steady drumming of his fingers on his knee, the way his gaze flicked toward her in the window's reflection, the subtle heat of his cologne filling the car.
"Remember," he said at last, just as the car slowed at the curb. "You're representing Drake Enterprises tonight. These people will judge the company based on what they see."
"No pressure," Ava muttered before she could stop herself.
His hand covered hers—firm, grounding, unyielding. "You'll be fine. Just stay close to me."
The Plaza's Grand Ballroom unfolded before them like something out of a dream. Crystal chandeliers sprayed light across cream walls trimmed in gold. Fresh white roses lined the tables. Champagne flutes glittered in every hand. Women glided in couture gowns while men in bespoke tuxedos murmured business deals between toasts.
And the moment they stepped inside, Ava felt it—eyes turning, whispers rising.
Lucien Drake's companion was noticed.
And she was suddenly, irrevocably, on display.
Lucien moved through the ballroom as if he owned it.
He nodded to acquaintances, shook hands with investors, and steered Ava through the glittering crowd with effortless confidence.
His hand rested at the small of her back. A point of contact that burned through the silk of her dress. Each time he shifted her in a new direction, the pressure sent a shiver racing up her spine.
"Lucien Drake," a silver-haired man greeted, his voice warm, his smile practiced. "Good to see you, my boy."
"Senator Morrison." Lucien's tone slid easily into charm. "Allow me to introduce my companion, Ava Lane. Ava, the Senator sits on the appropriations committee."
"A pleasure, Miss Lane," Morrison said, taking her hand. His grip lingered a beat too long. His eyes lingered longer. "You are absolutely radiant this evening."
Lucien's palm pressed harder against her back, his fingers spreading wider. Claiming her.
"Thank you, Senator," Ava managed. "It's an honor to meet you."
The pattern repeated as the night stretched on.
Lucien introduced her to a parade of powerful men and elegant women. His hand never left her back.
She began to notice the looks—the appreciative glances, the smiles that lingered too long on her neckline. And she noticed something else: Lucien's reaction.
His grip would tighten, almost imperceptible. His jaw would clench. He positioned himself so he loomed slightly behind her, a silent warning to anyone bold enough to stare.
It should have unsettled her.
Instead, a traitorous thrill curled in her chest. She could affect him. She could stir that control he carried like armor.
"You're quite the sensation tonight," a smooth voice interrupted.
Ava turned. A man her age, sandy-haired and green-eyed, offered her a glass of champagne. His grin was boyish, mischievous.
"I'm sorry?" she said, caught off guard.
"Every man here is wondering who the beautiful woman on Lucien Drake's arm is." He extended the glass. "James Rothschild. This is my family's little gathering."
"Ava Lane," she replied automatically, taking the drink. "And thank you, but I'm sure that's an exaggeration."
"Trust me—it's not." His smile deepened. "I've been watching you all evening. You glide through this crowd like you belong, but there's something different about you. Something… real."
Her cheeks warmed. James was charming. Normal. Approachable. For the briefest moment, she imagined what it might feel like to date someone like him—someone uncomplicated, who didn't monitor her phone calls or punish lateness with hours of standing.
"That's very kind of you to say," she answered softly.
"Kind, but true." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Would you like some fresh air? The terrace has the best view of the city."
Before she could respond, a shadow fell over her. Lucien.
His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her sharply back against his chest. The motion stole her breath.
"Rothschild," Lucien said. His tone was cordial, but steel ran beneath it. "I see you've met my Ava."
My Ava.
The possessive pronoun made her pulse spike. She should have hated it. Instead, heat rolled through her.
"Lucien." James's grin didn't falter. "I was just telling Miss Lane how refreshing it is to meet someone genuine at an event like this."
Lucien's grip tightened on her waist, fingers digging into her hip through silk. A warning. One only she could feel.
"Ava is certainly… unique," he said, his voice deceptively mild. "Aren't you, darling?"
The endearment coiled around her like velvet and barbed wire all at once. She shivered.
"I was asking Miss Lane if she'd like to see the terrace," James pressed, still undeterred.
Ava opened her mouth to decline politely—then stopped. James's hopeful smile caught her. For a heartbeat, she imagined stepping outside with him. Breathing, laughing. Being with someone who wasn't dangerous.
"That sounds lovely," she heard herself say.
Lucien went rigid behind her.
James's face lit up. "Wonderful. Shall we—"
But before she could take a step, Lucien's lips brushed her ear. His breath was hot. His words colder than ice.
"Smile at him again," he murmured, so low only she could hear, "and I will show you what jealousy truly looks like."
His grip tightened until it hurt. His body radiated fury. Possessive, restrained—for now.
Fear spiked in her veins. But tangled in it was something darker. Something dangerous. Something that made her wonder.
What would Lucien Drake do if he finally broke?
What would it look like to see him without the mask?