The champagne flute felt cold and fragile in Amelia's hand. She took a small sip, the bubbles doing little to settle the nervous flutter in her stomach. Adrian stood beside her, a silent sentinel, his gaze fixed on a point across the room where his father still held court.
"He's going to summon me," Adrian said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "It's only a matter of time."
As if on cue, a man in a discreet dark suit materialized at Adrian's elbow. "Mr. Vale? Your father would like a word."
Adrian's shoulders lifted in a barely perceptible sigh. He turned to Amelia, the mask of the polite heir firmly back in place, but his eyes held a silent apology. "Will you be alright for a moment?"
"I'll be fine," she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
She watched him walk away, his tall frame cutting through the crowd that seemed to part for him instinctively. Alistair Vale greeted his son not with a smile, but with a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that looked paternal but felt, from this distance, like the grip of a warden. He leaned in to speak into Adrian's ear, and Adrian's posture went from rigid to utterly still.
This was it. The main event. Taking a fortifying breath, Amelia decided it was better to be a moving target. She drifted towards the periphery of the ballroom, where enormous, abstract paintings in gilded frames lined the walls. She pretended to study one, a chaotic swirl of dark colors, using it as a shield.
"An interesting piece, isn't it? A little derivative of early Pollock, but the energy is compelling."
The voice was smooth, cultured, and came from directly beside her. Amelia turned, and her heart stuttered to a halt.
Alistair Vale was standing there, alone, his sharp eyes not on the painting, but on her. He had detached himself from his group and approached her with the silent, predatory grace of a shark.
"Mr. Vale," she said, her voice thankfully steady. "I was just admiring the use of contrast."
"Were you?" He smiled, a thin, practiced movement that didn't warm his icy eyes. "Adrian mentioned he was bringing a guest. A… classmate. Amelia, is it?"
"Yes. Amelia Reed. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." She offered her hand.
He took it, his grip firm and brief. "The pleasure is mine. It's not often Adrian brings anyone to these functions. He usually finds them… tedious." His gaze swept over her, a quick, efficient assessment that missed nothing—the quality of the silk, the simple heels, the lack of jewelry. He was pricing her, and she knew it. "You're a student at Westbridge?"
"Literature," she confirmed.
"Ah. A noble pursuit. Though I've always found fiction to be a distraction from the more concrete narratives of business and finance." He took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Tell me, Amelia, what are your plans after you graduate? Teaching, I assume?"
The condescension was a delicate, precise weapon. He was placing her in a box, a well-meaning but ultimately insignificant one.
"I have a few avenues I'm exploring," she said, refusing to be pigeonholed. "Writing, certainly. Perhaps publishing. I'm more interested in how stories shape our world than in keeping them confined to a classroom."
One of his eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. A flicker of interest, or perhaps annoyance. "Ambitious. I admire that. Tell me, how did you and my son meet?"
This was the question she'd dreaded. The truth—a coffee spill and mutual irritation—felt absurdly gauche in this setting.
"We have a literature seminar together," she said, sticking to the safest version of the truth. "We were assigned as seat partners."
"I see." He looked past her, towards where Adrian was now trapped in conversation with an elderly couple. "Adrian has a very specific path laid out for him. The Vale Corporation is more than a business; it's a legacy. It requires focus. Certain… alliances can be a distraction from that focus."
The threat was so thinly veiled it was practically transparent. You are a distraction. Know your place.
Amelia felt a hot spike of anger. This man, with his cold eyes and his casual power, saw his own son as a corporate asset. He saw her as a threat to that asset's performance.
She met his gaze directly, her chin lifting. "I've found Adrian to be quite capable of managing his own focus, sir. His insights in our class are some of the sharpest I've heard."
For a long moment, Alistair Vale said nothing. He simply studied her, his expression unreadable. She had not cowered. She had not apologized for her existence. She had, in fact, defended his son's autonomy to his face.
A slow, chilling smile spread across his features. It was the most terrifying expression she had ever seen.
"I'm sure they are," he said, his voice like silk over steel. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Amelia Reed. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."
He gave a curt nod and turned, melting back into the crowd, leaving her standing alone by the violent painting, her heart hammering against her ribs. The encounter had lasted less than three minutes, but she felt as though she'd just gone ten rounds in a ring.
A moment later, Adrian was at her side, his face etched with concern. "What did he say to you?" he asked, his voice tight.
Amelia looked at him, at the genuine worry in his eyes, so different from his father's calculated chill. She couldn't tell him the truth. Not here. Not now.
"He just wanted to know what I was studying," she said, forcing a light tone. "He was… polite."
Adrian's eyes searched hers, and she knew he didn't entirely believe her. But he didn't press. Instead, he let out a shaky breath. "Come on," he said, taking her empty champagne flute and setting it on a passing waiter's tray. "I need some air."
He took her hand, his grip firm and sure, and led her away from the glittering crowd, towards a set of French doors that opened onto a deserted balcony. The lion's den was behind them. For now, they had escaped.