PAIGE
The cold wine felt like a brand on my skin. A hundred eyes were on me, a mixture of pity, amusement, and outright fascination. I could feel the heat of a blush climbing my neck, warring with the chill of the stain.
My first instinct was fire—to unleash every ounce of my fury on Payton's smug, performatively "sorry" face.
But I froze. I saw my mother gliding through the crowd, her expression not one of shared humiliation, but of icy displeasure. This was a scene, and Barbara Rimestone hated scenes that she didn't orchestrate herself.
Fear coiled in my stomach. This was it. The public dressing-down. The reminder of my place.
Payton preened, expecting backup.
But my mother stopped before us. Her eyes, cold and sharp, didn't even glance at the ruin of my dress. They were fixed on her younger daughter.
"Payton," Barbara said, her voice a low, controlled whip-crack. "What a clumsy, unfortunate display."
She then turned that chilling gaze to me. She offered a thin, condescending smile that didn't reach her eyes. "My apologies, Paige. It seems my daughter forgot her manners along with her coordination. We are so very sorry for the… accident."
The apology was a weapon, designed to belittle us both. Before I could form a word, Barbara's perfectly manicured hand closed like a vice around Payton's upper arm.
"We will be in the ladies' room," she announced to no one and everyone, her tone leaving no room for argument.
She practically dragged a sputtering, confused Payton away through the crowd, leaving a wake of stunned silence.
The damage, however, remained. Me.
And then, my father was there. Shunsuke Rimestone didn't look at me. He turned to the nearest gawking guests, his voice a calm, authoritative rumble that immediately began to disperse the awkward energy.
"A clumsy accident, nothing more," he stated, as if issuing a press release. "The waitstaff will assist. Please, enjoy the champagne."
He was containing the fallout. Protecting the family name. To him, I was just another mess to be managed, a spill on the carpet of his perfect evening. He didn't see his daughter. He saw a problem to be solved, and then ignored.
The final, dismissive cut was the deepest. My father's eyes, cold and impersonal, flicked in my direction. It wasn't a look of concern, or anger, or even recognition. It was an assessment.
A quick, efficient glance to gauge the extent of the disruption to his evening, like a project manager noting a spilled coffee on a blueprint.
He took in the dark stain spreading across the expensive silk, my frozen posture, the lingering attention of the crowd.
And in that split-second glance, he saw all he needed to see. The problem had been identified and the solution (my mother's removal of the source) was already in motion.
Satisfied, he turned his back. Without a word, without a single change in his expression, he walked away. He melted back into the crowd, already engaging another CEO in conversation as if nothing had happened at all.
I was left standing there, alone in the middle of the room, the cold wine soaking through to my skin. I wasn't his daughter. I was an incident report. And I had just been filed away and forgotten.
A presence materialized behind me, so close I could feel the heat of him through the chilled silk of my gown. I startled, nearly tripping over my own heels as I whirled around.
Reomen stood there, a dark silhouette against the glittering party. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing. He'd seen it all.
"Well, well," he murmured, his voice a low, sarcastic purr meant only for my ears. "The mighty Black Cat, brought low by a cheap shot and a cheaper glass of cabernet. I expected more claws from a fallen heir."
The words were designed to sting, to provoke. But before the hot retort could even form on my lips, he tilted his head, a flicker of something that wasn't quite mockery in his gaze.
"Then again," he continued, his tone shifting into something drier, almost impressed. "Perhaps showing restraint was the sharper weapon tonight. A rarity indeed. Congratulations on not causing a scene I'd have to pay to clean up."
It wasn't an apology. It wasn't kindness. It was a smug, backhanded acknowledgment that he'd seen my humiliation, judged my reaction, and found it… passable.
He offered no handkerchief, no solution. Just the observation, leaving me standing in the ruined dress, more infuriated by his cool analysis than by Payton's pathetic stunt.
The cold seeped deeper than the wine, settling into my bones. I just stood there, the ruined silk of the Versace dress clinging unpleasantly to my skin, the murmur of the party a distant hum. Reomen's backhanded compliment hung in the air between us, a testament to how low the bar had been set.
He didn't look at the stain. His gaze was fixed somewhere across the room, his expression hardening into something cold and businesslike.
The brief flicker of whatever that was—concern, appraisal—was gone, replaced by pure, calculating intensity.
"Wait in the car," he said, his voice low and leaving no room for argument. He didn't even glance at me as he spoke, already turning away. "I have private matters to discuss."
The dismissal was absolute. I was being sent away, like a child who'd misbehaved at the adult table. The command was delivered with such casual authority that for a moment, I could only stare at his retreating back as he moved with purposeful strides, not toward the exit, but deeper into the crowd—likely toward my father.
Humiliation warred with a fresh wave of anger. He'd seen the entire pathetic spectacle, offered his sarcastic two cents, and now he was simply… done with me.
I was to go sit in the silent, opulent cage of his Rolls-Royce and wait while he handled the "private matters" my family had created.
With a stiff nod to no one, I turned and walked toward the entrance, the eyes of the party on my stained back, feeling less like a weapon and more like a problem that had been temporarily shelved.
REOMEN
My focus was a laser, cutting through the crowd straight to Denki. The pleasant mask I'd worn all night was gone. He was my Head of Security. His job was to anticipate problems, not stand by while a cheap theatrics derailed the entire evening.
He saw me coming, and the slight tightening of his jaw told me he knew exactly what was coming.
"Denki," I began, my voice low and cold, the single word a promise of a thorough dissection of his failure.
I never got to finish.
A figure stepped smoothly into my path, a genial, practiced smile on his face. Shunsuke Rimestone. Of course.
"Mr. Daki," he said, his voice oozing the kind of condescending charm men of his generation mistake for gravitas. He extended a hand. "Shunsuke Rimestone. I've been admiring your work from afar. Quite the rise you've had."
I forced my hand to meet his, the shake firm and brief. The feel of his skin against mine was a jolt. This was the man who'd looked at my father, a man who worked harder in a day than he did in a year, and deemed him unfit to wait in his lobby. And he had no idea. To him, I was just another successful young protégé to be patronized.
"Mr. Rimestone," I replied, my tone neutral, giving nothing away.
"A shame about the little… incident with my daughter," he continued, waving a dismissive hand as if swatting a fly. "Payton is so high-spirited. Clumsy, but her heart is in the right place."
Her heart is a shriveled, jealous pit, I thought, but I kept my face a placid mask. He was apologizing for the wrong daughter. He was so utterly blind.
"These things happen at parties," I said, the words bland, empty. I could see Denki using the distraction to slip away into the crowd. Coward.
"Indeed they do," Shunsuke said, beaming now, convinced he'd successfully smoothed over the ruffled feathers of a business peer. "I hope it won't color your impression of our family. We Rimestones are known for our… poise."
The irony was so thick I could taste it, metallic and sharp on my tongue. Poise. He said this while standing in a room where his disinherited daughter stood dripping in wine and his heir was a vapid brat.
I offered him a thin, cold smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Oh, it hasn't colored my impression at all, Mr. Rimestone," I said smoothly. "My impressions are always formed from a complete picture."
He missed the threat entirely, nodding agreeably. "Good, good. We should discuss a potential synergy between our companies sometime. I believe there's much we could offer each other."
You have no idea what I plan to take from you, I thought, the smile still fixed on my face. "I'm sure there is," I replied. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a prior engagement."
I left him there, standing alone, already forgotten. The conversation was filed away, another move in a game he was too arrogant to realize he was already losing.
My anger at Denki was now a cold, focused thing. I'd deal with him later. Right now, I had a Black Cat to retrieve from my car.
The silence inside the Rolls-Royce was a stark contrast to the noise I'd just left. I slid into the cool leather of the back seat, the door closing with a hushed thud, and finally let the mask of cold civility drop.
And then I saw her.
Paige was out cold, slumped against the window. The harsh, angular posture of fury and humiliation she'd carried out of the party had completely melted away in sleep.
In its place was a startling vulnerability. Her breathing was deep and even, her lips slightly parted.
The elegant knot of her hair had come partially undone, a few dark strands curling against her neck.
My eyes trailed down. The ruined Versace gown was a tragedy of dark red on black, but the infamous slit had fallen completely open in her sleep, exposing the long, elegant line of her thigh all the way to her hip.
The sight was… arresting. A jolt of pure, undiluted heat went straight through me, so sudden and intense it caught the air in my lungs.
For one wild, unbidden second, the thought was there, fully formed and terrifying in its clarity: Take her home. Take her home and show her exactly what that dress was designed to provoke. Show her how much I want her.
The image flashed behind my eyes—my hands on that silk, peeling it away from her skin, the taste of her, the sound she'd make—and it was so vivid, so possible, that my entire body went rigid with the effort of suppressing it.
The impulse was a live wire, raw and electric. And just as quickly, I snuffed it out.
I tore my gaze away, forcing a slow, controlled breath into my tight chest.
No.
That was a complication I could not afford. A line that, once crossed, would obliterate the careful game I was playing.
I looked back at her, at the peaceful, exhausted face of the woman who was my employee, my pawn, my revenge.
The possessiveness that had simmered in me all evening cooled into something harder, more familiar: control.
The desire was still there, a dull, aching thrum under my skin, but it was now locked away, compartmentalized. Just another asset to be managed. Just another part of the strategy.
I turned my head and stared out the window at the passing lights of the city, my jaw set, waiting for the moment to pass, for the equilibrium to return.
She was a weapon. Nothing more. And I would not be the one to dull her edge.
"To the Penthouse," I order the driver.