PAIGE
The week had flown by in a blur of preparation and tense, professional avoidance. Now, at 5 PM on the day of the gala, I was shoving files into my bag, my heart already starting a low, anxious thrum. The door to my office swung open.
Reomen Daki leaned against the doorframe, impeccably dressed in a charcoal Tom Ford tuxedo that looked like it had been tailored onto him. A slow, familiar smirk played on his lips.
"Trying to make a quick escape, Black Cat?" he purred, his eyes scanning my rushed movements with amusement. "Afraid you'll be exposed without a stack of papers to hide behind?"
I slammed my bag shut, straightening up to face him. "No. I just prefer to be on time for my own public executions. Unlike some people who enjoy making a dramatic entrance."
His smirk widened. He pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps into my office, his presence immediately making the space feel smaller. "Is that any way to talk to your date for the evening?"
"You're not my date. You're my handler," I shot back, crossing my arms over my Theory blazer.
He was suddenly closer, his gaze dropping to my defiant posture before returning to my eyes. He looked at me for a long, quiet moment, the smirk fading into something more unreadable.
The air between us crackled, thick with all the unspoken challenges and that strange, magnetic pull I kept trying to deny.
"Come with me," he said, his voice losing its teasing edge, becoming a simple, direct command.
"Why? The gala isn't for hours."
"Just come," he repeated, turning and walking out without another word of explanation.
Frustration warred with curiosity. With a sigh, I grabbed my bag and followed him. We didn't speak in the elevator down from the Daki Tech offices.
The silence continued as we crossed the gleaming lobby and stepped out onto the bustling Madison Avenue sidewalk.
His black Rolls-Royce Phantom was idling at the curb, a silent, obsidian monolith amongst the yellow cabs. The driver held the door open. Reomen slid in first, not looking back to see if I followed.
I hesitated for a second on the curb, the city noise swelling around me. Then, with a shake of my head, I ducked inside, sinking into the butter-soft leather interior. The door closed with a hushed, expensive thud, sealing us in our silent, pressurized world.
He still hadn't told me where we were going.
The Rolls-Royce moved through the New York streets like a silent shark, cutting through the traffic until it glided to a stop beneath the awning of Reomen's Tribeca penthouse building.
He got out without a word, and I followed, the weight of the upcoming evening settling on my shoulders.
Inside the private elevator, the silence felt heavier, charged. He stood beside me, a tall, imposing figure in his impeccable Tom Ford tux, his gaze fixed ahead. I kept my eyes on the ascending floor numbers, my arms crossed tightly over my chest.
The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse. The vast, minimalist space was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below like a glittering map of everything he owned.
He didn't offer me a tour. He walked to a sleek B&B Italia console table where a large, black box tied with a simple silk ribbon sat. He picked it up and turned, holding it out to me.
"Change. And get ready in the guest room," he said, his voice flat, offering no explanation. His tone wasn't rude, but it wasn't gentle either. It was a command, delivered with the expectation of immediate obedience.
I took the box. It was heavier than I expected. The ribbon felt expensive under my fingers.
I didn't thank him. I just turned and walked down the familiar hallway to the guest room, the same room I'd woken up in twice now. Closing the door behind me, I leaned against it for a second, the only sound the frantic beating of my own heart.
Setting the box on the bed, I untied the ribbon with slightly trembling fingers. I lifted the lid, pushing aside layers of delicate tissue paper.
And then I saw it.
The dress.
It wasn't just a dress. It was a weapon. A masterpiece of dark, liquid silk and delicate, razor-sharp black beading that caught the light like shards of obsidian. It was nothing like the Versace he'd chosen before. This was darker. More powerful. Utterly in control.
This was the armor for the queen he expected me to be tonight. And a part of me, a part I hated, was already desperate to put it on.
I slipped the dress over my head, the cool, heavy silk whispering against my skin. It fit perfectly, hugging my curves before falling away in a sleek, elegant line.
I turned to look in the full-length mirror, and a slow, involuntary smile touched my lips.
"Well," I muttered to my reflection, smoothing a hand down the impossibly fine fabric. "He finally got something right. Black is my colour."
It was more than right. The dress was a masterpiece of understated power, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of the queen he'd spoken of.
Then I saw it.
In the corner of the room, a velvet stool had been placed before a sleek, modern dressing table that hadn't been there before. And on its surface, laid out with an almost ceremonial precision, was a full array of makeup.
Not just any makeup. Chantecaille foundation in my exact shade. Charlotte Tilbury lipstick in the deep berry I always wore. Tom Ford eye shadow quads in the smoky, neutral tones I preferred. Even the Hourglass ambient lighting powder I splurged on once a year was there, alongside brushes so soft they felt like sable.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was one thing for him to guess my dress size. That could be pulled from an HR file. This was different. This was intimate. This was the palette of my face, the arsenal I used to face the world, perfectly curated and waiting for me as if I lived here.
A cold shiver, part unease and part something else entirely, traced down my spine. He hadn't just provided a costume. He'd studied the lead actress.
The message was clear: every part of me was now his to design tonight. With a steadying breath, I sat down at the table and reached for a brush, the battle for control beginning with the first stroke of foundation. He might have provided the weapons, but I was still the one who would wield them.
The flawless makeup and the devastating dress felt like a suit of borrowed armor, but the silence of the penthouse was starting to feel oppressive.
I hadn't seen the housekeeper, and a stubborn sense of gratitude pushed me to find her and properly thank her for her quiet kindness on two of the most humiliating nights of my life.
I moved through the sprawling, minimalist rooms, my steps silent on the polished concrete floors.
I peeked into a state-of-the-art kitchen, a formal dining room with a table for twenty, and a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Then I pushed open a heavy, partially closed door and froze.
This wasn't just a room; it was a domain. The master bedroom was vast, dominated by a low-slung platform bed made of dark, figured wood that looked like a piece of art.
A wall of glass offered a dizzying, panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, now glittering with evening lights.
The air smelled clean, like sandalwood and rain. Everything was meticulously ordered, breathtakingly luxurious, and intensely, undeniably male.
My eyes scanned the room, taking in the details—the Frette linens, the abstract art on the walls, the stack of books on a B&B Italia nightstand.
I was so engrossed in the sheer, imposing perfection of it that I didn't hear the soft click of the ensuite bathroom door opening.
"See something you like?"
The voice was low, husky, and laced with a familiar, smug amusement. It came from behind me.
My entire body went rigid. I slowly turned.
Reomen stood in the doorway of the bathroom, a cloud of steam billowing out around him. A towel was slung low around his hips, leaving his toned torso bare. Water droplets glistened on his skin and dripped from his dark, wet hair.
He leaned against the doorframe, completely at ease, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"Or were you just taking inventory of your new investment?" he purred, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep of me in the dress he'd chosen. "I must say, the return is already looking... substantial."
I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I just stood there, caught in his space, wearing the armor he'd given me, while he stood before me in nothing but a towel and a smirk.
The air crackled, thick with unspoken challenge and a dizzying, dangerous attraction. His gaze held mine, waiting.