Wyatt
I tracked her from the moment she entered.
Forty yards across the transformed estate floor, past the investors clustered near the bar, beyond the string quartet sawing through something classical and forgettable.
She moved beside her father like a satellite—close enough to orbit, far enough to maintain her own gravity.
The dress caught light when she turned. White, backless, sophisticated in a way that made her look older than twenty-one. But her movements betrayed her. The way she smoothed the fabric. The way her free hand found her father's forearm when someone new approached. Nervous. Eager to please.
Harrington introduced her to a board member—tall man, silver hair, practiced smile. I watched her extend her hand. Watched her match his handshake with surprising firmness. Watched her mouth shape words I couldn't hear but could guess.
Pleased to meet you. Yes, I'm looking forward to the role. Thank you so much.
Polished. Rehearsed.
But when the man turned away, her smile faltered for half a second before resetting.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. That gesture. I'd seen it three times already. Always when the noise swelled. Always when too many people crowded too close. Overwhelmed.
I lifted my glass, let expensive whiskey burn down my throat, and didn't take my eyes off her.
Two younger players approached—Stevens and Mercado, forwards, mid-twenties, exactly the kind of cocky bastards who thought charm was a personality.
Stevens said something that made her laugh. The sound carried across marble and crystal and bullshit conversation. Light. Easy. Genuine. Too easy.
She didn't know these men. Didn't know what they wanted. Didn't recognize the way Stevens leaned into her space, the way Mercado's gaze dropped to the open back of her dress.
Sharks circling chum.
My fingers tightened on the glass.
Mercado gestured—some exaggerated story, probably about a game-winning goal he'd scored. She smiled politely but didn't lean in. Didn't touch his arm the way she touched her father's. Didn't mirror their energy.
She held herself separate. Good. Smart. She's softer than I thought.
The observation landed unwelcome. I shoved it down. Soft didn't matter. Soft wasn't relevant to the plan.
But the thought stayed anyway, sticky and uncomfortable.
God help her.
Harrington reappeared, placed his hand at her elbow, steered her away from the players with practiced authority. They scattered immediately—boys recognizing a predator when one marked territory.
He said something quiet near her ear. She nodded, smiled up at him.
Pride in his expression. Proprietary.
This is my daughter. She'll be stepping into a leadership role next quarter.
I'd heard him say it four times tonight. Different investors. Same script.
Showing her off. Proving stability. Proving legacy.
My jaw locked.
You love your daughter, Harrington?
I watched him guide her toward another cluster of suits.
Let's see how much.
She touched her hair again—tucking, smoothing, self-soothing.
The gesture did something strange to my chest. Something sharp and unwanted that had nothing to do with revenge. Possession. Raw and immediate.
She doesn't belong in their hands. She belongs in mine.
I hated the thought instantly. That wasn't the plan. She was a tool. A means. Collateral damage in a war Harrington started when he destroyed my marriage and walked away clean.
But watching her navigate the room—innocent, earnest, trying so hard to be what her father needed—something shifted. Not sympathy. Something darker.
I drained the whiskey and set the glass down.
She moved toward the dessert table.
I pushed off the wall and followed.
She grabbed three chocolate-covered strawberries and a truffle before slipping toward the glass doors.
I tracked her movement through the crowd. Nobody else noticed. They were too busy networking, drinking, performing.
She pushed through to the hedge garden and disappeared.
I counted to ten. Never rush the hunt. Desperation showed. Desperation made you sloppy, and sloppy men lost.
I'd already lost once. Not again.
At eight, I set my empty glass on a passing tray. At ten, I moved.
The glass doors opened soundlessly. Cold air hit immediately—sharp contrast to the overheated ballroom. My breath fogged.
The garden stretched out in geometric patterns, hedges trimmed to military precision, lanterns glowing amber against dark greenery dusted with fresh snow.
She stood twenty feet away, back to me, one hand braced against the stone balustrade. She popped a strawberry in her mouth. Her shoulders dropped. Relief in the gesture.
Overwhelmed.
I almost laughed.
She was a peach. Sweet. Fresh. Untouched by the rot festering in her perfect family.
And God, that made this better. Better to corrupt something innocent.
Better to watch her father's face when he realized what I'd taken.
Not his money. Not his reputation. His daughter's trust. Then her ruin. Then his legacy crumbling.
I didn't want to touch her—not like that. Physical was easy. Physical was forgettable. Emotional devastation lasted.
I wanted her to give me everything willingly. Wanted her to choose me over him. Wanted Harrington to watch his precious daughter defend the man who destroyed him.
That's the revenge worth having.
She reached for another chocolate, unaware. Small. Bright. Out of place in the dark garden.
Something tightened in my chest again. That same sharp, unwanted pull.
I shoved it down hard. This wasn't about her. She was collateral. A means to an end.
But still…
I almost turned back. Almost walked away. Found another path to destruction that didn't involve a twenty-one-year-old girl eating chocolate in a backless dress.
But then I remembered…
Bedroom door swinging open. Her father's shirt half-unbuttoned. My wife's laugh—wrong pitch, wrong context. The wedding ring catching lamplight. His expression. Not guilt. Annoyance.
"Wyatt. This isn't—"
But it was.
The memory burned clean through hesitation.
I stepped forward.
"Most people stick to champagne," I said. "You went straight for chocolate."
She froze mid-chew. Turned slowly. And looked directly at me.
I saw her properly then. Not the image moving through the crowd. Not the backless dress catching light. Not the careful gestures I'd catalogued from across the room.
Her.
Eyes behind the mask—wide, green, uncertain. They searched my face, trying to place me. Recognition hovering just out of reach.
Her mouth soft with surprise, lips parted slightly.
Chocolate smudged on her thumb.
She caught me looking and wiped it quickly against her palm, embarrassment flashing across her features before she locked it down.
Trained response.
Something tightened in my chest again. I ignored it.
"I like chocolate," she said. Defensive. A little sharp.
Good.
I stepped closer—not enough to crowd, just enough to shift the air between us. "I can tell."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Spark behind the uncertainty. She straightened, chin lifting just enough to matter. Not a coward. I didn't want someone who'd fold the first time things got difficult. Didn't want someone so fragile she'd shatter before Harrington felt the full weight of what I planned.
"Are you hiding?" she asked.
"No." I shifted my weight, let my gaze hold hers. "I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"Opportunity."
The word hung between us, loaded with meaning she couldn't possibly understand.
She frowned slightly, beautiful even with confusion creasing her forehead. Her hand found the balustrade—steadying herself or putting something between us, I couldn't tell.
"Do you play for the team?" Her voice carried polite interest. Social script kicking in. "I'm sorry, I should recognize you, but the masks—"
"Yeah," I said. "Something like that."
True enough. Close enough.
She nodded, accepting the deflection. "It's overwhelming. All this." She gestured vaguely toward the glass doors, the muffled music beyond. "I'm not usually…" She trailed off.
I studied her hands. The way her fingers tapped against stone. The way her thumb rubbed along her opposite palm—nervous gesture, unconscious.
"You don't look overwhelmed."
She huffed. Half-laugh, half-exhale. "That's because I was trained not to."
The admission landed hard.
Trained.
Not taught. Not encouraged.
Trained.
Like a show horse. Like performance mattered more than feeling. Like appearing perfect was more important than being real.
I heard Harrington's voice in those four words. Heard decades of expectation, pressure, control wrapped in parental pride.
Image. Optics. Legacy.
Don't embarrass me.
Something dark curled inside my chest. Not quite anger. Not quite satisfaction. Possessiveness. Again. Raw and immediate and completely fucking unwelcome.
She doesn't know what he is.
She trusts him.
Good. That made this work. That made the betrayal cut deeper when it came.
But also—
Christ.
I'd expected Harrington's daughter to be like him. Calculated. Polished armor all the way down. Someone who deserved what was coming because she was complicit in his lies.
But she wasn't.
She was twenty-one years old, overwhelmed at a charity gala, eating chocolate in a dark garden because she needed five goddamn minutes away from performance.
Human. Vulnerable. Innocent.
That should've made this easier. It didn't.
"Training's overrated," I said.
She looked at me then—really looked, like she was trying to see past the mask, past the stranger making conversation in a hedge garden.
"Says the man who works with professional athletes."
Smart mouth.
I almost smiled.
"We get paid to perform," I said. "You don't."
Her expression shifted. Something flickered behind her eyes—surprise, maybe. Or recognition that someone saw the weight she carried.
"No," she agreed quietly. "I don't."
The admission felt like a gift she didn't mean to give.
I stepped closer.
She turned to leave.
The movement came sudden—embarrassment or self-preservation, maybe both. Her dress caught the low branch of a sculpted hedge, fabric snagging with a soft tearing sound that made her gasp.