It’s the day of the gala, and I’m panicking.“You look good, Dee,” Jessica says.“Are you sure? Does the color of the dress seem right? Am I wearing too much makeup or too little? Is the dress too tight? Am I doing the right thing?” Jessica sighs, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Remember, you don’t have to do any of this. Just say the word, and I’ll send Uncle Bruno’s limousine away.”I chuckle. “I can’t believe he sent a fucking limousine.”Yup, Uncle Bruno has never been discreet. True to his word, I got an email with all the details—event schedule, seating plan, and my spot in the hall. Seeing my name, Desiree Blackwood, on such a high-profile list nearly had me in tears. But the real jaw-dropper? I had a front-row table, right across from the keynote speaker’s. I mean, I’d be practically staring into Mr. Hart’s eyes.My fingers are trembling.Jessica steps back, giving me a once-over. “The dress is perfect, Dee. The emerald green really brings out your eyes, and the fit is ju
Oh. My. God. I'm face to face with Mr. Hart, and there's no doubt he's talking to me.His blue eyes stare right into mine, and I can't look away. He seems so confident and powerful, making me feel both excited and nervous at the same time. The air feels thick, and every second feels long as I try to think of what to say. My heart is pounding, and my hands are getting sweaty. This is the moment I've been waiting for, but now that it's here, I'm completely speechless.I just keep staring. And staring.“Cat got your tongue?” he says.I shake my head, trying to gather my thoughts. Maybe if I pretend this is a casual encounter with a cute barista, I’ll remember how to speak.“Why are you following me?” he asks.Being this close to Mr. Hart unnerves me. I’d pictured this moment so many times. What I’d say. How I’d say it. I practiced in front of my mirror, perfecting my body movements. Don’t smile too much—it makes you look cheap. Don’t slouch—it decreases your height. Don’t look away—hold
So far, Mr. Hart has led me through an endless series of corridors. Left, right, left, right. Door after door passes by, each one looking exactly the same. Just when I think we've reached the end, another hallway appears. It’s magical. It’s scary. I feel like we’re moving around in circles, or moving through a wonderfully constructed maze. “Where are we going?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.“You’ll see.”I’ll see? I don’t like that answer. What does it even mean? Am I getting kidnapped by a billionaire? Strangely, that doesn’t scare me as much as it should. Or is he a cannibal? Am I allowing myself to be easily escorted into a slaughterhouse?“Mr. Hart—” I call out, trying to sound more confident than I feel. Maybe if I keep talking to him, he’ll remember that I’m human. And as a fellow human, it would be inhumane to eat me.“Call me Caspian,” he says, leading me into another quiet corridor.Wonderful. We’re on a first-name basis. I guess that means I’m not getting eaten.“Mr.
No way. That door wasn’t there before—I’m absolutely sure of it. It was a blank wall when I was standing right in front of it. Where did it come from?“Are we allowed in here?” I ask, trying to mask my astonishment.“Well, you’re not allowed. I have a key,” he replies with a grin.As I step into the newly revealed room, it becomes clear that it’s an office, but not like any I’ve ever seen. The walls are entirely made of reflective glass—just mirrors. The effect is mesmerizing: the room seems to stretch into infinity, each surface catching and multiplying the light. Reflections bounce and swirl, creating an illusion of boundless space.The furniture is just as striking. The desk, chairs, and coffee table all have sleek, mirrored surfaces that shimmer under the ambient light. They seem to float in the room, their reflections blurring the boundaries between real and imagined.“Do you, um, own this place?” I ask.“Do people really own places?” he muses with a thoughtful look. “I’m a major
Caspian’s eyes lock onto mine. There’s a playful glint in those eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. He leans back slightly in his chair, his posture relaxed but attentive. “And how, lovely lady, do you plan to seduce me?”I want the ground to open up and swallow me. I feel my face flush, and for a moment, my mind races, trying to come up with a clever response. But all I can think about is the way his eyes seem to see right through me.“I…,” I begin. “Well, I didn’t think that part through. That’s why I was observing you. To figure out what might work.”“So after two hours of staring, what did you discover?”“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Absolutely nothing. You’re hard to read.”Caspian reaches for the bottle of scotch. He pours the rich, amber liquid into his glass, filling it just enough to leave a small gap at the top. Then, with a casual glance, he picks up my glass. Despite the fact that there’s still some alcohol left in my glass, he tops it off with scot
Caspian's POVIt’s Sunday, eight days since I met the red-haired angel, and I think I’m slowly losing my mind. I see her in my dreams. I see her when I’m wide awake. Desiree Blackwood. Her name is stuck in my head. I remember everything about her—her sharp eyes, her fiery hair, and the way she smelled. I see her in the faces of people I pass, hear her voice in the quiet moments, and feel her touch when I’m alone.It’s not just a crush; it’s a need. Eight days have felt like forever, and I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t focus on my work. Every time I try to think about something else, her image pops up in my mind.Why do I feel this way about her? Is it because she’s a challenge, or because of the fire in her eyes? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m hooked, and there’s no way to stop it.Beep, beep… beep, beep… beep, beep…I pick up the phone. “Yes?”“Boss,” my private investigator says, “I have the information you need.”“Which of them?”“Desiree Blackwood.”Just hearing
The connection seems to take forever, each second stretching out as I wait for the call to go through. Finally, Bruno’s familiar voice answers, smooth and composed. “Mr. Hart, what a pleasant surprise.”“Mr. Bruno—” I start, but he cuts me off.“Tell me you're calling to say I did a marvelous job at the gala. And that you'd like to tip me with a million dollars.”Ha ha. Bruno and his jokes. Today, I'm not laughing.“You did an excellent job as usual,” I say, forcing a bit of politeness into my voice.“Thank you, Mr. Hart.”“And about the payment, if you're not satisfied—”Bruno immediately stops me. “Please,” he says, “it was a joke.”“Oh. So you don't need a million dollars?”“I don't… Well, I do… But in this case, I… fuck it. Let's start this conversation again. Good morning, Mr. Hart. How may I be of service to you today?”I chuckle. There's a reason Mr. Bruno is one of the best event hosts out there. It's because of moments like this. He has an uncanny ability to make anyone laugh
This is the eleventh time Mabel has flipped her hair. I’ve been counting.She’d say something ordinary like, “Pass me the salt shaker, Mikey,” and flip her hair. “What time is it, Mr. Hart?” Another hair flip. “This food is so nice. What is it, Italian?” And yet another hair flip.I don’t know why, but that simple act annoys me greatly. Why not just tie up the damn hair? We’re eating, for goodness’ sake. But I hold my tongue. This is Mike’s fiancée, after all. I have to be civil. I don’t want to end up like one of those parents whose children never come home for the holidays. And maybe I’m a little bit—just a tiny bit—biased against her because of Desiree. I need to be open-minded. She might turn out to be a great person, and I don’t want to ruin our future daughter-in-law and father-in-law relationship by hating unnecessarily.“I have to say this, Mr. Hart,” Mabel says, flipping her hair for the twelfth time, “your house is beautiful. So grand. The furniture. I can’t even…”“Thank yo