Tiana: At least the champagne will be good?
Chloe: Maybe silver fox, I mean silver crush will be there ??
Me: He won't be there. And stop calling him that.
Chloe: Why? You're gonna see him again and need a better nickname? "Daddy" perhaps?
Me: Fuck you.
Chloe: Nah, I'll pass. Now go put on something slutty and expensive and go spend daddy’s money.
I don't put on something slutty, it’s more like sexy. I put on the black dress because it's the only formal thing I packed, and it happens to hug every curve like it's got opinions about my body. Off the shoulder, slit up the thigh, the kind of dress that saysI'm here against my will, but I'll look good doing it.
The gallery is in the arts district, all exposed brick and pretentious lighting. I arrive fashionably late because I'm petty like that, and immediately grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
The place is packed with exactly who I expected—men in expensive suits discussing profit margins disguised as artistic vision, women in designer dresses pretending they understand postmodernism. I recognize half of them from Dad's world. The other half are probably legitimate art lovers who have no idea they're drinking champagne paid for with blood money.
I'm three steps into the room when —
What the hell?!
He really is here. Oh my God, is Chloe psychic now?
Silver hair. Black suit. Standing in front of a massive abstract painting like he's actually considering buying it.
My heart stops.
No.
No, this is—
He turns, and our eyes meet.
And that same electric current from last night slams into me so hard I almost drop my champagne.
He doesn't look surprised. Doesn't look anything except... guarded. His expression remains the same, even more closed off, like seeing me here is a complication he didn't plan for.
Oh.
Most men would smile. Would take this as an invitation, a sign from the universe. But not him. He just watches me with those dark eyes, and there's something in them that looks almost like suspicion.
What the hell?
I should walk away. Should leave him alone, go mingle with the other guests, pretend last night never happened. But my body has other ideas.
Breathe, Aurora. Just breathe.
But I can't. Because he's walking toward me, and every step he takes makes my pulse race faster, makes the space between my legs throb with want, makes me forget every reason this is a terrible idea.
"We meet again." His voice. damn, his voice. It's exactly what I imagined last night when my hand was between my legs—gravel and whiskey and sin.
"Small world," I manage. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Or fate." He stops close enough that I can smell him—expensive cologne, something dark and woodsy with a hint of smoke. "Though I don't believe in fate."
"Neither do I."
"Liar."
