Damn it, why now? Dreaming about Richard was bad enough, but this kind of half-finished wet dream... hell, not even half.
I reached down. God, even wetter than in the dream.
I pushed aside my panties, slipped a finger inside, my other hand kneading my breast, but it wasn't nearly enough. I imagined if that dream had continued, how Richard would work me over, what filthy things he'd whisper in my ear. As much as I hated admitting it—maybe because of the pregnancy—I really did miss how sex with Richard felt. Even in that failed marriage, I'd loved his powerful body.
The nightbefore leaving for California, I checked my luggage again. Mask, performance outfit, loose maternity clothes, vitamins, all important documents... I read Emma's event schedule over and over, trying to use detailed planning to push down the unease.
This was just a private brand dinner, at a winery, small scale, low-key. Someone like Richard would never show up at something like this.
I kept telling myself that, right up until the plane touched down on California's sunny soil.
The afternoon creative meeting went smoothly. The brand people were professional. That young heir who was supposedly my fan—a guy named Ryan—really was like Emma said, just genuinely into the music, kept a polite distance, at most looking entranced when I hummed improvised melodies, saying "Yes! That's it! Perfect!" I relaxed a little.
That evening, the private dinner was set in an elegant open-air courtyard at the winery, decorated with climbing roses. White tablecloths covered the long table, silver utensils and crystal glasses glinting in candlelight. Not many guests, maybe a dozen—brand people, festival organizers, plus some local artists and critics. I still wore my signature silver mask and a low-key forest green velvet gown.
Ryan was enthusiastic, introducing me to key partners. I just smiled and nodded the whole time, occasionally offering thoughts on music.
Then at seating, I noticed an empty chair next to the head of the table. A beautiful place card and settings sat in front of it, but the chair was empty.
"Oh, that's for a VIP we really hoped to have," Ryan explained when he saw me looking, his tone carrying barely detectable nerves and excitement. "We sent an invitation, but someone at that level... schedules are always hard to pin down. He said he'd try to stop by, though."
"Who's the VIP?" Emma asked beside me, always interested in expanding her network.
Ryan started to answer when the heavy wooden door at the courtyard entrance was pushed open from outside by a server.
Evening wind swept in, carrying the scent of night roses and a hint of chill, lifting a corner of the tablecloth and making the candles flicker.
A tall figure, nearly filling the entire doorframe, walked in backlit by the hallway lights.
He stood over six-foot-two, broad shoulders and solid chest filling out a perfectly tailored charcoal suit into clean, powerful lines. His hair was slicked back impeccably, revealing a high forehead and sharply defined features. Every detail screamed control and precision—pure black silk tie tied tight and straight, white shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffs showing an exquisite handcrafted watch.
When he entered, he radiated an almost physical sense of pressure. The light followed him, gradually illuminating that expressionless face and a pair of eyes that froze my blood instantly.
Even in the dim, flickering candlelight, those gray-blue eyes blazed bright. His gaze cut across the noisy, shifting crowd in the courtyard and locked directly onto my face, like a predator spotting prey.
"This is the VIP I mentioned, the Winston family heir, Mr. Winston."
In that moment, my heart stopped beating.
Chapter Twelve
Richard
Honestly, before I even got to this damn party, my mood was already in the gutter.
That afternoon meeting was a complete disaster. Their CEO spent forty minutes showing me a PowerPoint about his company's "innovation," and I tore his bullshit apart in three sentences. Watching the sweat roll down his forehead, all I could think was how he was wasting my time.
After the meeting wrapped, the bastard had the nerve to sidle up to me. "Mr. Winston, would you do us the honor of joining us for dinner tonight? There'll be quite a few girls there. I guarantee you'll be satisfied."
I looked at him.
He wanted to set me up with women? Did he think I was some kind of joke? Some nouveau riche who needed cheap tricks and pretty faces to seal a deal? This kind of bottom-feeding play wasn't just tacky—it was an insult to my taste. If I wanted that kind of thing, women would line up around the globe. I didn't need him playing pimp.
"Spend your time figuring out how to make your company competitive," I said coldly. "If you don't bring something better to the table, I can pull my investment anytime. Calculate how many days you've got until bankruptcy without Winston backing you."
His smile froze. He started apologizing, but I was done listening. I got in the car and told the driver to head to the vineyard. At least the wine at tonight's event was supposed to be decent.
Ryan,the vineyard manager, looked surprised when he saw me. He walked over, handed me a glass of wine, and started his eager pitch. I gave him half my attention while my eyes were drawn to a woman across the room wearing a silver mask.
