Tall. Confident. Composed in a way that doesn’t require performance. She doesn’t scan the room looking for approval or permission. She doesn’t hesitate.
She just arrives.
Basic black dress. Clean lines. Just conservative enough to be a statement, and somehow that makes it worse for me, not better. Because it doesn’t do her body justice. Long legs, narrow waist, shoulders back like she’s used to taking upspace without apologizing for it. Blonde hair, the kind that catches the light even under these dim ballroom fixtures. Blue eyes I can see from here—too bright, too clear, the kind that make you think of ice and truth and the sharp edge of both.
The kind of eyes that don’t get distracted.
A few men straighten their posture. A few women tighten their smiles. Even the servers clock her and adjust their paths to give her space, like the room recognizes authority.
That’s interesting.
Because this place is built to swallow people whole. The Regent Club is designed to make everyone feel slightly smaller than the money surrounding them. And she walks in like the building is just… a building.
She takes a few steps and lets her gaze sweep the room. Looking for someone? A group? A date?
I feel a slight tightening in my gut at that.
I should be focused on the Northstar group.
I glance toward the area where they were standing just a few minutes ago, clustered near the sculpture. They’re gone now, which means Olivia has them on the casino tour like I wanted.
Thank God.
I managed to talk them into it just in time. “See the property,” I’d said. “Get a feel for what we’re building.” Easy line.Harmless line. The kind of thing people like Crane can say yes to without feeling like they’re conceding anything.
And Olivia is perfect for that job. Roberto’s wife, Marketing Coordinator—pretty enough to disarm, smart enough to steer, polished enough to make a tour feel like an exclusive favor instead of a controlled funnel. She can keep them moving. Keep them entertained. Keep them away from me long enough for me to do what I actually came here to do.
Work the room.
Not the obvious room. Not the one full of flattery and champagne. The real one—the undercurrent. The alliances and rivalries, the small tells, the people watching from the edges instead of laughing at the center.
And then this woman walks in and changes the rhythm.
I set my untouched glass on a passing tray and let my hands go empty. That’s my signal to myself. No props. No pretense. Just me, moving through the crowd like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I don’t head straight for her. That would make it a chase, and I’m not chasing a stranger across my own ballroom like a hungry idiot. Even if I am one.
I angle my path to circulate naturally, to pass close enough to read her without cornering her, close enough that if she looks up, she’ll see a man who looks like part of the night and not a man who’s decided she’s a target.
She drifts toward the perimeter, staying out of the loud center.
I guess she didn’t find her people after all. Or maybe she isn’t really here with anyone at all.
She stops near a decorative display and pulls a phone out of her clutch.
The service back here isn’t good.
I step into her orbit, not close enough to crowd her, close enough to be heard.
“This whole ballroom is a dead zone,” I say. “It’s not you.”
Her eyes flick to me. Big, blue, and so clear. No smile on those surprisingly lush lips.
“Convenient,” she says and puts her phone away.
It’s not friendly. It’s not rude. It’s precise.
She goes back to scanning the room.