The marble steps of Voss Tower gleamed beneath a hundred camera flashes. Strings swelled from an orchestra hidden behind curtains; laughter rose, bright and rehearsed. Los Angeles had never looked so polished—or so hungry.
A black car slid to the curb. The door opened, and Damon Voss stepped into the light.
He wore midnight—tailored suit, cuff links that caught the flash like sparks. The crowd's hum fell to a hush. Jenna Dobrick emerged beside him, silver gown rippling, hand poised on his arm. To the lenses, they were perfection: wealth and beauty, a story people could photograph.
Inside, the ballroom glittered in gold and crystal. Waiters moved like clockwork, laughter clinked against glass, and beneath it all pulsed that silent awe reserved for power. Damon guided Jenna through the crowd, offering small nods, clipped words. He looked carved, precise, as though emotion had been folded out of him with the lapels.
He felt eyes follow him—board members, journalists, rivals—but one pair of eyes was missing.
Across the city, another car door closed.
Elara Quin stepped out, the hem of her midnight dress brushing the pavement. Stella grabbed her wrist before she could reach the entrance. "Okay," she whispered, eyes wide. "Whatever happens in there, remember to breathe."
Elara smiled faintly. "You act like we're entering a battlefield."
Stella smirked. "Same thing. Only with better lighting."
Inside, the world tilted. Chandeliers spilled light across mirrored walls; people glittered, conversations blurred into perfume and champagne. Elara's calm cracked for half a second—long enough to feel small amid so much spectacle.
Then she saw him.
Damon stood near the central staircase, listening to an investor. He looked up—just once—and the noise dropped out of her head. The distance between them folded; the air changed. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
Her pulse stumbled. Stella followed her gaze and exhaled, "Okay, wow. That man doesn't walk; he arrives."
Before Elara could answer, a low murmur rippled through the hall. The main doors opened again.
Alex Walter entered.
The crowd shifted instinctively, as if gravity had moved. Tall, black-haired, wearing confidence like cologne, Alex was the kind of man the city built skylines for. Gray eyes scanned the room with bored amusement, acknowledging the stares that trailed him. A reporter whispered, "Walter Holdings," and another murmured, "owns half the high-rises on the West Coast."
He loosened his tie, smiled for the flash of a camera, and strode toward the bar where Stella now stood frozen.
"Are you breathing?" Elara murmured.
"Barely," Stella said. "That's Alex Walter. Real-estate royalty. I think my rent just went up."
Elara laughed quietly, the sound half nerves, half disbelief.
Alex noticed the sound. His gaze slid their way—lazy, assessing—and the smile that followed was slow, deliberate. He crossed the floor.
Alex stopped a polite distance from them, glass in hand.
"Ladies," he greeted, voice deep and unhurried, the kind of tone that turned heads by accident. "Alex Walter."
Stella almost forgot her name. "I—uh—know," she managed, then laughed at herself. "Sorry. I just… didn't expect real-estate moguls to have actual personalities."
He smiled, faint but amused. "We rent those out sometimes. Depends on the building."
Elara bit back a grin. "Clever line."
"I try." His gray eyes flicked between them. "You work for Voss Industries?"
"Publishing division," Stella said quickly. "I'm the talkative one; she's the brilliant one."
Alex looked at Elara longer than politeness required. "Then I pity your boss. Brilliant people ruin plans."
Elara tilted her head. "Or fix them. Pleasure meeting you again."
He lifted his glass in a small salute. "You too. We'll see which you do." Then, with a nod that felt like a promise, he drifted away into the crowd.
Stella released a slow breath. "Tell me that was real.You've met him before! "
"Depends," Elara said. "Did your heart just apply for a mortgage? Yeah I met him at the airport I went to pick Jamie from. We barely talked. "
From the terrace doors came a faint rush of cooler air. Elara needed it. She slipped outside, leaving the noise behind. The city glowed below, quiet and endless.
She'd barely taken a breath when a voice behind her purred, "Beautiful view, isn't it?"
Jenna Dobrick stood by the railing, sequins catching the light, a smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Elara turned. "It is."
"Mr. Voss seems to think so, too. He's been watching it, and you—for quite a while."
Elara folded her arms. "Maybe he appreciates efficiency."
Jenna's laugh was low. "Oh, darling, men like Damon don't appreciate anything they can't control."
"Then he shouldn't look my way."
The actress's eyes gleamed. "Careful. He might enjoy that answer."
The music inside swelled, muffled through glass. Jenna leaned closer, her perfume expensive and overwhelming.
"Here's some advice, Miss Quin. Curiosity makes lovely copy, but it's a terrible survival trait."
Elara's voice stayed even. "I'll take my chances."
Jenna studied her for a moment longer, then smiled the way stars do before they burn out. "You already are."
She turned and slipped back inside, applause meeting her like a cue.
Elara stood alone, heartbeat syncing to the distant waltz until another voice broke the quiet.
"You shouldn't let people like her unsettle you."
Damon.
He stood in the doorway, jacket undone, tie loosened, every inch of him shadow and control.
"She doesn't," Elara said. "But you do."
His mouth curved, barely. "Honest. I'll keep that in mind."
He extended a hand. "Dance with me."
She stared at it, at him, at the ballroom beyond—the crowd waiting, the cameras watching. Then she took his hand.
Inside, the orchestra slowed to a waltz.
A ripple moved through the room as they stepped onto the marble floor. The crowd expected Jenna; instead, they saw her.
Whispers raced through champagne and perfume. Flashbulbs began to pop.
Damon placed a hand at her back, precise, claiming nothing yet owning everything.
They moved in time, quiet, poised; but every turn felt like defiance. She looked up once and met his gaze—green meeting hazel—and for a heartbeat the gala disappeared.
"Do you always watch people like that?" she asked softly.
"Only the ones who might undo me."
The words hung between them, half challenge, half confession. Around them, people stared, whispered, speculated.
Jenna's smile froze mid-conversation. Stella clutched her champagne, whispering, "This is either history or career suicide."
Alex chuckled under his breath. "Both."
The final note lingered. Damon released her hand last. Applause broke out—uneasy, dazzled, full of questions.
He leaned close enough for only her to hear. "Tomorrow, Miss Quin, the real game begins."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. The look she gave him was all the promise he needed.
Under the chandeliers, truths didn't hide—they danced.