Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
The Gala
Aiden
The Meridian Grand’s ballroom is a study in the worship of money.
That’s not cynicism, it’s admiration, pure and simple.
You don’t spend four million on black marble flooring and imported crystal chandeliers unless you intend for people to feel, even in the soles of their feet, that they are unassailably, shamefully important.
I like the message. It makes everyone here predictable. And when you’re predictable, I own you.
I clock the high-profile guests as soon as I step in, military brass, bank CEOs, a handful of senators who think their faces aren’t public enough to risk a night out with the likes of us, their future donors and tech overlords.
The women have done the updo thing, power hair scraped and shellacked to feminine architectural perfection.
But Cat… Catalina is a fucking supernova.
She’s already three strides ahead, emerald silk drifting behind her like a nuclear wake. The gown is perfect for her. Exposed skin without being indecent. Professional and dead fucking sexy at the same time. And somehow she pulls it off with a confidence that I have always found so alluring.
She glides toward the CFO of First State, intercepts his trajectory with the same grace as an airstrike, and dials her smile up three notches. “Arturo. Is your daughter surviving her first semester at Stanford or are you already plotting the rescue mission?”
Arturo’s face splits open in relief. “Barely. Her roommate is a vegan and she says she’s wasting away.”
“Remind her what her tuition costs, and then offer to sneak a ham sandwich into her next care package. I’ll help with the caper,” Cat says. She leans in, hand on his elbow, and the man is ruined. The wife at his side tries to keep her eyes neutral but fails because she’s charmed, too.
I pace two meters behind, eyes on the rest of the floor.
The point is not to be seen with her but to watch her be seen.
The ripple of attention she generates is visible, like the jetstream distortion over a desert highway.
Men straighten ties, women shift handbags from left to right, minor satellites adjusting for maximum exposure.
I study Cat’s back, exposed from the base of her neck to the slope above her ass.
I know what her skin tastes like. I know the birthmark everyone can see on her neck, but also the one under her right breast. She’s spent the last five years honing herself into a weapon that needs no introduction, but tonight she’s on overdrive.
Cat’s hand brushing mine as we pivot into the guarded space between two rival tech directors. Both men stand arms crossed, waiting for the other to flinch. Cat doesn’t hesitate. She steps forward, winks at me, and in a heartbeat they’re both leaning in.
“It’s amazing you could carve out time for us tonight,” she calls, voice low enough for us but loud enough for anyone within earshot.
I stay a half-step behind her, casually adjusting my cufflink.
“We’ve both gotten updates on the Post Quantum rollout, no consensus yet. How’s the real-world deployment?”
The directors freeze. They weren’t expecting Cat or me to know their working group existed. For a beat they exchange panicked looks, hers to me, his to his colleague, then settle on caution.
“We’re ahead of schedule,” the taller one blurts, eyes flicking my way.
“Yes. Benchmarks look promising,” the shorter adds, sweat beading at his hairline.
Cat’s grin widens. “Promising is my favorite flavor of benchmark. Let’s compare notes next week, unless you’d prefer we join your all-hands tomorrow?
” She drops her voice to a purr, and I slip in beside her, handing them both my business card with a flourish.
Their shoulders sag. By the time they register defeat, we’ve already drifted on, leaving two new prospects in our wake.
We make our way to the edge of the marble dance floor, me angling myself so I can see every entrance and exit.
Seven surveillance cameras and two bored guards can’t replace vigilance.
Cat takes her place beside me, scanning the room with that practiced cool.
Our first public appearance as a couple is more than symbolism, it’s our new frontier.
She nods toward the bar’s orchid centerpiece, half-darkening her face in exotic shadow.
A man in his forties slides up: Garrett Holt, CTO of Holt Stanley Systems, three times our revenue, a legacy built on stubborn arrogance.
His tie is loosened, posture all confident sprawl. He spots us, pauses, then strides over.
“Ms. Vaquer, Mr. St. James,” he drawls, nodding at us with thin-lipped politeness. “Quite the power move, arriving together.”
We exchange a glance: small, triumphant. I place my glass on the bar, coaster aligned with surgical precision. Cat flicks an eyelash at Holt.
“Mr. Holt,” she says, voice crisp. “Enjoying the party?”
He sniffs. “I’ve seen better open bars. But I see you’re still at Precision. Remarkable.”
Remarkable, as if it’s a bitter pill. I catch Cat’s jaw twitch, her only tell. I slip a reassuring hand to her lower back.
“And you,” she counters, “are still Mr. Smug.” Her smile is casual, but lethal. Holt blinks.
He shifts his gaze to me. “St. James. You must be pleased.”
I let the silence stretch. Then I lean in.
“Catalina rebuilt the Hargrove account after it hemorrhaged two million on your so-called legacy team. She led the comms audit that shut down one of our competitors and without her, we wouldn’t have closed the Zurich deal that your lawyers tried to sabotage.
If you need a résumé, I’ll forward it, with bullet points for your convenience. ”
Holt’s face drains from pink to white. He lifts his glass in a shaky salute. “Touché. Enjoy the evening.” He melts back into the crowd.
Cat straightens, glances at me, and our hands find each other’s.
“I had it handled,” she says softly.
“I know you did,” I answer, just as softly.
But I wanted to, anyway.
She sips her drink, and I see the scarlet line of her mouth, perfectly drawn, slightly smudged at one corner from the glass.
My mind wanders, as it always does, to what that mouth looks like around the head of my cock.
I imagine her down on her knees in this exact dress, unzipped at the side and pulled off her shoulder, her hair fisted in my hand, tears leaking from her mascara as I made her take all of me, slow and mean and precise.
I have to fight to keep my breathing even. Fuck, I want her.
She sees me seeing her, and the edges of her mouth tick up, sly and knowing.
“Are you going to say something clever?” she asks.
“Not in this company,” I say, nodding at the crowd.
“Then later?”
“Definitely later.”
She turns back to the crowd, head high. I stand next to her, a handspan away, but it may as well be a continent. I want to touch her so badly it almost hurts, but I wait. The wanting is the point.
She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “You could at least look less bored.”
“Watching you work is never boring,” I say, and I mean it.
She laughs, not for me, but for the benefit of the couple behind us who are clearly eavesdropping.
I watch her body, every movement telegraphs intent, every word placed with surgical purpose.
I want to take her apart and see what lies underneath all that calculation, the soft places she doesn’t show anyone.
In the span of fifteen minutes, Cat collects four business cards, schedules two power lunches, and sets a verbal landmine for Holt that I know will detonate before midnight.
She navigates the rest of the ballroom with the same precision.
I trail behind, silent and watchful, content to play shadow until the last handshake is done.
By the time the evening winds down, I can feel the heat rising off her.
I don’t mean anger or adrenaline. I mean the physical, electrical charge she carries when she’s riding the high of a successful hunt.
It’s the same energy that used to draw me to her at the club, when I didn’t know her name and she didn’t know mine.
She’d walk into a room and I’d lose the thread of my own conversation, drawn to her orbit like a fucking moon.
As the guests filter out, Cat lingers at the bar. I join her, and for a moment it’s just us, reflected back in the polished black of the marble.
“Did you get what you needed?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Depends. Did you?”
“I always do,” I say, and I lean in, close enough for her perfume to override the rest of the world.
She doesn’t flinch. “You’re a liar.”
“So are you.”
She grins, all teeth. “That’s why we work.”
The last guests leave. The lights dim, and the city’s shimmer floods in through the windows, painting her skin in silver and red.
I want her, and I plan to have her, but I also want to be seen with her. Maybe that’s new. Maybe it’s been there all along.
We leave together. The power couple. The rumor mill’s next obsession. She holds her head high, daring anyone to question her place at my side. I let her lead the way, content to follow.
Her heels click on the marble, marking time, and I realize I am already imagining the sound of them scraping against the floor of my apartment, right before I make her come.
Later, she will call me an asshole for defending her honor, and I will take the accusation gladly.
But for now, I let her own the room.
I just enjoy the view.