4. Silas
CHAPTER FOUR
T he ballroom sparkled under the chandeliers, the air thick with perfume, champagne, and the subtle scent of performative altruism.
Glass flutes gleamed in manicured hands, silk gowns flowing against polished marble, and the men—well, they were measuring their worth by the weight of their wallets and the number of people desperate to shake their hands.
It was polished. Sophisticated. Exactly the way it was supposed to be.
The Fourth Annual Graves & Everly Technologies Charity Gala for Poverty Relief.
A fucking mouthful. One that barely fit on the invitations, but trying to change it wasn’t worth the bureaucratic headache.
The venue dripped with wealth, but that wasn’t why we were here. The city didn’t need another overpriced event where the rich clinked glasses and patted themselves on the back for remembering that poor people existed. It had enough of those.
What it needed was real help. That’s why we did this.
Yes, I’d worked my ass off for years, clawing my way out of nothing to build what I had today, brick by metaphorical brick.
But a lot of it had come down to luck. Right places, right times, crossing paths with the right people who could open the right doors.
That wasn’t talent alone. That was chance.
Not everyone got those chances. And seriously, what’s the point of sitting on millions of dollars when you know there are people out there sitting on absolutely nothing? If we couldn’t do something meaningful with all this, what the hell were we even doing?
The gala funded local food banks, shelters, affordable housing projects—direct investments into the heart of the city that had let us grow.
The evening had been a haze of handshakes, forced smiles, the same polished small talk I’d cycled through a hundred times before.
Some conversations mattered—people who actually gave a shit, who understood what we were doing here.
The rest? Just a parade of designer suits and empty platitudes, all nodding along like they weren’t mentally tallying how many likes their outfit was going to get the second they posted it.
Did it piss me off? Maybe a little.
But money was money. If their self-serving guilt funded another shelter, another stocked food bank, another night where someone didn’t have to sleep on the damn street, then fine.
Let them use this as their good deed for the year.
I wasn’t in the business of purity tests. I was in the business of results.
The whole thing played out in the same predictable rhythm.
Grateful patrons thanking me like I’d personally rebuilt the city.
Investors poking around for details on the company’s profit margins, like I was about to hand over my ledger in the middle of a gala.
Newcomers blinking wide-eyed at the whole thing, sipping their champagne as someone gently steered them toward writing a check they’d barely understand.
Smiles. Nods. The same recycled praise in fifty different flavours.
‘ Such important work you’re doing.’
‘You must feel so proud.’
‘It’s inspiring, really.’
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate it. I did, but after the tenth time hearing, ‘You’re saving this city,’ it was hard not to catch the subtext— ‘ And thank God it’s you doing it, because we sure as hell aren’t.’
I adjusted the cuff of my tux, the tailored fabric smooth and perfectly fitted against my skin, the subtle weight of my mask pressing against the bridge of my nose. Midnight black, sleek, sharp. Designed to cover the upper half of my face while leaving my mouth and jawline visible.
“Intimidating,” the designer had said. “ Masculine. Perfect for the event.”
Masculine sure, but I didn’t know why the fuck I had to look intimidating.
I was the CEO of a tech company. I ran on business meetings and coffee, not blood oaths and organised crime.
“What’s up, Graves?” A voice cut through the chatter as a hand clapped me on the back of the shoulder.
I turned to find Finn Everly standing there, champagne in one hand, tie slightly askew, hair a complete disaster.
His black and gold mask was slightly crooked, like he’d either put it on in a rush or had already adjusted it a hundred times through the night.
He was my best friend of twenty-one years, the other namesake to our company, and the only man on this earth who could manage to look like he’d been professionally dragged through a hedge backwards, and somehow still pull it off.
I exhaled sharply. “Finn.”
His sharp blue eyes flicked over me, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You look like a guy who just lost half his fortune in a high stakes poker game and is trying to decide which organ to sell first. ”
“Just waiting for this night to be over.”
He took a slow sip of his champagne, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Shouldn’t you at least pretend to enjoy yourself? Shake a few more hands? Maybe even—dare I say it—smile?”
“I smiled earlier,” I said, shooting him a flat look.
“At the catering staff when they brought out the canapés. That doesn’t count.”
“They had brie,” I shrugged. “It was an emotional moment.”
“Right. Because nothing tugs at the heartstrings quite like soft cheese.” He turned, placing his empty drink on a passing tray and swiping two more glasses of champagne before holding one out to me. “Drink this before you start scaring off other rich guys with your murder face.”
I shot him daggers but took the glass anyway.
He grinned. “And if you get tired of playing brooding, responsible adult, feel free to join me in a very delicate, high-risk operation.”
“Should I even ask?”
“Liberating an entire bottle of whiskey from behind the bar without the staff noticing.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Finn, we could literally buy the entire bar.”
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”
I took a slow sip of my drink. “I’d rather you didn’t commit a felony at our own event.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Felony is a strong word.”
“It’s the correct word.”
“Man, you used to be fun.”
“No, you just used to be less criminally inclined.”
“Debatable,” he smirked. Then just as quickly, his attention snapped elsewhere. “Shit. Hot piece of ass, twelve o’clock. Gotta go get that.”
I closed my eyes, inhaling deep in an attempt to summon strength from the universe. “Per l’amor di Dio, Finn.”
By the time I opened them again, he was already moving, shooting me a salute. “Don’t wait up!”
I kept myself occupied with conversations, polite nods, and more lines about how wonderful it all was. I’d been so occupied in fact, that I’d barely noticed the young woman who’d draped herself over me like a snake in heat.
She’d slid in earlier, interrupting me mid-conversation with one of my employees. I hadn’t seen her approach, but I sure as hell caught the sharp floral perfume that hit my nose like a slap.
Her perfectly manicured hand rested on my shoulder, the tips of her long nails tracing idle patterns along the edge of my jacket as though she had every right to be there. Her body pressed firmly against my side, lips painted a bold red that matched the wine stain on her glass.
Some influencer, I thought. An educated guess based on the number of times she’d asked me to take a selfie with her. Apparently, her hundred thousand followers couldn’t live another second without seeing her cosying up to me.
I exhaled slowly, pressing my tongue to the inside of my cheek.
She was speaking, but I wasn’t listening.
I had no interest in whatever rehearsed lines she thought would work on me.
I wanted to continue my conversation with my devs.
But she was making it really damn difficult, and not in a good way.
I shifted slightly on my seat, pulling away from her, but she followed, pressing her thigh against mine.
My gaze dragged across the room, searching for a way out.
She leaned in closer, her fingers drifting lower, trailing down the smooth fabric of my tux, lingering against the lapel like she was testing the texture. Her voice dipped, sultry now, like she thought it might ignite something.
It sparked nothing but a flicker of irritation beneath my ribs.
I wondered how long it would take for her to get bored of being ignored and slink off to find someone who actually gave a shit about her follower count.
Her nails skimmed lower. A light graze, trailing downward, testing, lingering.
I clenched my teeth, a muscle in my jaw ticking.
She pressed further against me, the manicured hand venturing into territory that absolutely wasn’t open for exploration.
There was a sharp pulse of irritation, then something hotter and sharper.
It was invasive. Maddening. Like a grating itch I couldn’t scratch, a pressure that gnawed, suffocating and unwelcome. Every muscle coiled tight.
I was done.
I didn’t acknowledge her as I moved. I simply stood, the sudden shift enough to make her hand fall away.
Her fingers hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment before dropping, like she wasn’t sure what to do now her target was gone.
I adjusted my cuff, the smooth motion enough to give me some semblance of control.
Calm. Composed. Not at all irritated by the fact she’d spent the last fifteen minutes trying to grope me in public.
The excuses I offered to the people around us came easily, though I barely heard my own words as I slipped through the crowd, focus locked straight ahead, the stink of her perfume following me even as I tried desperately to get away from it.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind me.
The air was cooler, cleaner, the silence broken only by the soft trickle of the small stone fountain in the corner.
Leaning heavily on the marble counter, I braced my hands on either side of the basin, the cool stone grounding me as I bowed my head and forced a deep, steadying breath .
A thirty-four-year-old man reduced to hiding in the bathroom. Impressive. Truly .
Get it together.