Chapter Three
Antonio
I see her the moment she steps into the room.
And I’m not the only one.
It’s not dramatic. The music doesn’t change. No one announces her. But attention shifts, eyes change direction, there’s a fraction of a pause in conversation.
The ballroom is full of practiced attention tonight. People are here to be seen, to see who matters, to keep score without admitting they’re doing it.
She walks in like she isn’t keeping score at all.
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 up space 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.
I tilt my head. “You looking for someone?”
She doesn’t answer that. Her eyes land on my tux, then my face, then they’re done with me. “A couple of people, but I’m late.”
“Seems to me you’re right on time,” I say. “Antonio.” I hold my hand out and wait.
With reluctance, she takes it. “Elsa.”
Her hand is cool in mine, grip firm. No fluttering fingers, no lingering squeeze.
“Elsa,” I repeat, letting the name sit on my tongue like I’m deciding whether it suits her. It does. It sounds sharp. It sounds like it doesn’t tolerate nonsense.
I keep holding her hand for a beat longer than necessary, not enough to be rude, enough to be noticed. “You have a talent for walking into a room and making everyone forget what they were saying.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine, flat and unimpressed. “That’s not a talent. That’s other people being easily distracted.”
I laugh, low, because that answer is better than a smile. “Fair. Then let me rephrase. You have a talent for not caring who’s watching.”
“I care,” she says, and it’s quick, almost automatic. Then she corrects herself with a tiny shift of her chin. “I just don’t perform.”
Something in my chest tightens, a little twinge of recognition. I let my hand fall away and angle my body so I’m not blocking her view of the room. No trap. No corner. Just presence.
“So you’re late,” I say, nodding toward the direction she’d been looking. “Do you want help finding your people?”
Her eyes take another sweep of the room. “If they were here, I’d have seen them by now. I’m not exactly short. Seems they left.”
“Seems they did,” I say, like it’s mildly funny and not a problem at all.
Her eyes cut back to mine. “It isn’t funny.”
“I know,” I answer, still smiling. “That’s why I’m smiling for both of us.”
A breath leaves her nose—almost a laugh, almost not. “You always talk like this?”
“Only when I’m trying to convince a beautiful stranger not to bolt.”
Her eyes narrow, but it isn’t anger. It’s assessment, like she’s deciding whether I’m harmless or simply well-practiced.
“Bold,” she says, deadpan. “You don’t even know me.”
“That’s the best part,” I reply. “If I knew you, I’d have to behave.”
Her lips press together, fighting something. Amusement, maybe. Or the urge to tell me to go away. “I don’t bolt,” she says. “I leave when I’m done.”
I tilt my head, conceding the correction as if it matters. “Then let me earn a few minutes before you’re done.”
She looks past me again, scanning the room with that same cool focus, then back to my face like she’s realized I’m not going to move unless she tells me to. “I’m not here for a few minutes,” she says. “I’m here because I have to be. And if there’s no reason for me to be here, I should leave.”
“I’m hurt that you don’t consider me a good reason to be here,” I say, hand drifting to my chest in a performance I don’t even bother to sell as sincere.
She watches me like she’s watching a man try to charm a bank teller into ignoring an overdraft. “You’ll live.”
“Probably,” I concede. “But since you’re trapped here anyway, you might as well get something useful out of it.”
Her brow lifts a fraction. “Useful.”
“Free drinks,” I say. “Good conversation. When’s the last time you actually had a good conversation?”
“And you consider yourself that good of a conversationalist?”
I lean in a little closer and lower my voice. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
She gazes into my eyes with that intense and deep blue. “I’m still here because you’re standing in my way.”
I grin and shift, just enough to clear her path. “There,” I say. “Now you can leave.”
She doesn’t move. Her eyes flick past me again, like she’s checking whether someone is watching this exchange, then she looks at me with that same calm. “You think that proves something?”
“It proves you’re not as bored as you pretend to be,” I say. “Or you’d be halfway to the door.”
Her lips part like she’s about to cut me down, but instead, she inhales and lets the air out slowly. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I have to be,” I say, and I keep it light, even though the words are truer than I want them to be. “If I wasn’t, people would smell it.”
“That sounds exhausting,” she says, and there’s the smallest crack in her armor—something human, something almost sympathetic before she snaps it shut again.
“It can be, but I enjoy it,” I say, being honest. I suspect a woman like her appreciates honesty.
After a beat, she tilts her head and shrugs. “Fine, buy me a drink.”
“They’re free,” I say, but I turn and gesture for her to walk beside me.
“Then, acquire me a drink,” she says.