– Milana –
The air in the Alcrest Group's building always smells faintly of power and ambition, the kind that clings to glass walls and polished floors.
From my desk in the executive wing, the view of Halston City stretches out in perfect symmetry, high rises gleaming under a cold sun, traffic moving like a well choreographed performance.
My inbox is a war zone, but the presentation spread out in front of me is almost finished, two hours of research condensed into slides my father will barely glance at before handing them to his board.
I'm halfway through drafting a market forecast when my phone lights up.
Adrian Sinclair.
I blink at the screen, he has never called me.
"Hello?"
"A private investor's luncheon is being hosted at The Elysian," his voice is low, deliberate, the kind that makes you straighten without realizing. "I want you to meet me there."
I glance at the clock. "Right now?"
"Yes."
I exhaled. "That can't happen, I have work to do."
"We agreed to do this PR synergy on my schedule."
"Yes, we agreed," I say evenly, "but what we didn't agree on was you summoning me like a prop. I'm in the middle of something, and my father will kill me if I leave without finishing it."
"Your father has already approved it."
I stopped typing. "What?," My voice edges with disbelief. "Anyway, that agreement is between you and my father, it has nothing to do with me
"Too late," his tone doesn't change, but I hear the finality in it. "My driver's outside."
"You're kidding," I say flatly.
No response, just silence.
I push back from my desk, the chair bumping hard against the cabinet.
My heels strike the marble in quick, sharp bursts as I make for the elevator, the sound echoing in the otherwise perfect hush.
The lobby's glass doors part automatically, and the air hits cool against my skin. Parked at the curb is a black Bentley Mulsanne, paint gleaming like still water, the driver standing beside it in his immaculate suit.
Still on the call.
"Are you serious?"
"You have thirty minutes to get here," he replies calmly.
"No—wait—"
The line goes dead.
"Hello?… Hello?" I pull the phone from my ear, staring at the screen before dragging my hand down my face. "Motherfuc—" I cut myself short, catching the eyes of a passing secretary.
Clearing my throat, I straighten my suit dress like I've said nothing at all.
…
– Adrian –
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and stepped into the dim corner of the rooftop terrace. The city sprawled out below, a muted tapestry of glass and steel, sunlight flashing off mirrored windows.
Oliver was already there, leaning against the railing, his suit immaculate despite the summer heat.
"I have kept eyes on Cierra like you asked," Oliver began, his tone even. "Nothing unusual to report, she's been… ordinary."
I adjusted my cufflinks, the faint click of metal against metal the only sign of impatience. "And the Lemaire Grand?"
Oliver's eyes flickered. "Security logs confirm she was there the night of the incident, but her movements after? Clean, no contact with anyone, she didn't even linger."
"We're looking for a smoking gun, you won't find it in Cierra's day to day, she's playing it safe," I said, keeping my voice low and controlled. "No one is that clean, keep watching. If she takes a step off her neat little path, I want to know before she finishes the movement."
Oliver nodded once. "Got it."
"And the girl?"
"Still unconscious," Oliver replied. "No visitors except medical staff."
I glanced toward the skyline, the sunlight now fading behind the clouds. "Double the watch on the hospital, accidents have a way of multiplying when no one's looking."
---
– Milana –
The Bentley slowed before the sweeping entrance of The Elysian, its façade gleaming in champagne colored stone and framed by manicured hedges.
Beyond the valet line, flashes from waiting photographers cut through.
We rolled to a smooth stop, before the driver could step out, the passenger door swung open—Adrian stood there, immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, hand extended like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You made it," he said, voicing a low murmur against the background noise of camera shutters and murmured greetings.
I slid my palm into his, the warmth of his grip steady as he helped me from the car. "Well, you basically kidnapped me," I replied, my tone caught somewhere between dry and amused.
A corner of his mouth ticked upward.
We moved forward in step, his hand guiding me lightly at my back as the camera flashes intensified. We paused on the pale stone steps, turning towards the swarm of lenses with the kind of polished ease that came from being born into the spotlight, his arm shifted just enough to close the space between us.
Inside, the noise dimmed to a refined hum. The air was cool, scented faintly with white orchids and old money. A discreetly dressed hostess ushered us past a series of gilded double doors into the private investor's luncheon, a space draped in ivory and gold, where laughter was soft, smiles were calculated, and every conversation was worth a fortune.
Waiters in black vests floated between tables like chess pieces in slow, deliberate motion.
Adrian's focus zeroed in on a man across the room, late fifties, silver hair, the kind of tailored navy suit that whispered old money rather than shouted it. Beside him sat a woman draped in pale silk, a single pearl resting at her collarbone like they'd been placed there since birth.
Adrian guided me toward them, his palm at my back again, light but undeniably steering. "Milana," he murmured, "this is Henry Covington and his wife, Margaret."
It clicked immediately. This wasn't just about "PR synergy" or whatever line Adrian had been selling me. This was a move, calculated down to the shade of my lipstick. The man was a target, and the wife was the soft entry point.
Henry's handshake was firm; Margaret's was cool and assessing, I gave her the kind of smile that said I'd grown up knowing which fork to use and where to place my champagne flute. Within moments, she was leaning towards me, asking about my dress.
I knew what this was. If she liked me, her husband would be more inclined to Adrian and whatever business they had going on.
So I played the part.
"That color looks divine on you," she said. "Valentino?"
I returned the smile, easy, polished. "Close, custom piece from Paris, the designer insisted the shade works only under natural light, he nearly refused to sell it to me when he found out most of my events are indoors."
Margaret laughed, the sound tinkling like ice in a glass. "Designers can be such tyrants, I had a similar issue with Dior, they tried to forbid me from altering a gown I bought— As if I'd ever follow instructions."
"I suppose rules are for other people," I said lightly, and her eyes lit like I'd just confirmed we were on the same team.
Within minutes, she was leaning closer. "So tell me, do you play? We've just renovated the estate's tennis court."
"I do," I said, even though it had been years. "But only with partners who don't take it too seriously, otherwise I'm afraid it becomes more war than sport."
Margaret tilted her head, amused. "We might get along very well indeed."
Across from us, Adrian and Henry were deep in conversation, their voices low but intense, the air between them charged with the unspoken weight of millions.
I caught the faintest flicker of Adrian's glance towards me, approving, before he returned his full attention to Henry.
Margaret touched my arm as a server refilled our glasses. "You must come to one of our dinners, I can't imagine letting Adrian keep you all to himself."
I sipped my champagne, my smile not faltering. "I'd be delighted."
And I was….. , not because I wanted the invitation, but because I could see the way Henry's posture had eased, the way Adrian's mouth curved in the smallest hint of victory.
---
A low hum of conversation still filled the room, the clink of crystal and faint strains of a string quartet weaving through it.
I stood with a glass of champagne in hand, Adrian beside me, the two of us framed in the soft gold light that made everyone look wealthier than they already were.
"I see now," I said, tilting my glass just enough to catch the light. "Why you insisted on me being here."
His gaze stayed fixed ahead, a faint smirk in place. "It worked, didn't it? We did the spotlight alignment, and I got my business deal done."
I took a slow sip, "You mean 'we' got your business deal done, I did the big part in this, smiled every second and made polite conversation while your target forgot all about his wife's pearls."
He turned towards me, just enough to close the space between us. "I'm pleased with the outcome."
"That's one way to say you enjoy throwing me into the deep end," I said, arching a brow.
"You'll forgive me," he murmured, "when you see tomorrow's headlines."
His smirk deepened, and in that moment, with the room still alive around us, it felt like no one else existed.
---
Night had settled over the city by the time we were on the road, the glow of streetlamps sliding across the car's dark interior.
The hum of the engine was the only sound for a while, the city outside a blur of gold and shadow through the tinted glass.
"You handled today flawlessly," Adrian said at last, his tone edged with approval.
A faint smile tugged at my mouth, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of looking at him. "Well, don't get used to it, I'm not in the habit of making your life easier."
He let out a quiet, amused breath, the kind that said he'd take that as a challenge.
The car curved into the long drive of the Monroe mansion, the pale stone glowing under the soft wash of garden lights. Adrian eased to a stop at the front steps.
"Goodnight, Adrian."
He nods once.
I stepped out into the cool night air, heels clicking against the marble as I headed up the steps, his gaze followed me, the quiet hum of the engine breaking only when he shifted the car into gear. By the time I reached the top of the steps, the taillights had already disappeared beyond the gates.