Chapter 10
T he hum of curling irons and the soft hiss of hair spray fill the air as stylists and makeup artists work their magic. The room smells like roses and heated ceramic. There’s music playing low—some sexy, thumping track that’s clearly meant to set a confident tone—but my nerves are louder.
Most of the girls went with little black dresses. Classic. Timeless. Safe.
I went the other direction.
Bone-white.
Short.
Fitted.
Deliberately bold against my skin.
A statement.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. My auburn hair tumbles in waves, and my makeup is flawless—soft, glowing, and not too sultry. The dress hugs every curve, skimming high on the thigh and dipping just low enough to earn a second glance.
If nothing else, I look like I belong here tonight.
Even if I’m not sure I feel like it yet.
The girl beside me is pale. Her stylist moves to grab more setting powder, and she clutches her clutch like it’s a lifeline. Her hands are trembling.
I lean over just slightly, offering a smile. “You look stunning. That neckline? Showstopper.”
She exhales a shaky breath, smiling back. “Thank you. I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”
“Then make sure you do it gracefully,” I tease gently. “Preferably onto someone rich.”
She laughs, tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Noted.”
I hope it helped. I really do. Because I get it.
The nerves. The unknown. The sick tangle of excitement and dread.
Tonight is the Mixer . The moment all of this—the training, the NDA, the whispered promises—gets real. Billionaires, CEOs, politicians… men with too much money and too little time will walk onto the rooftop patio tonight looking to sponsor their next Ledger Companion.
And we’re the inventory.
It’s not a transaction—not exactly.
We’ve already set our limits.
We get to say no.
But still… we’re the ones being chosen.
It’s all starting to feel painfully real now.
What if no one bids on me?
Does someone… pity-pick the leftovers?
Is there a consolation sponsor for the girls who aren’t anyone’s first choice?
Or worse—do they cut you loose?
Toss you out of the Ledger and wish you luck?
The thought tightens around my lungs.
I’ve been applying for jobs outside of this, submitting resumes, sitting through interviews that all blend together. Nothing’s landed yet. And if this doesn’t work out…
I don’t let myself finish the thought.
I adjust the hem of my dress and glance around for someone to ask. Maybe one of the assistants. But before I can move, a familiar voice rings out.
“Ladies,” Eve says, stepping through the door in a tailored black suit and stiletto heels that could draw blood. Her dark hair is swept back in a sleek knot, and her signature red lipstick looks like war paint.
All conversation stops.
Every stylist freezes mid-sweep. Every girl lifts her chin.
Eve smiles, and it’s sharp enough to cut glass.
“Showtime.”
* * *
T he rooftop patio glows under the fading warmth of sunset, the sky painted in brushstrokes of lavender and gold. Delicate strings of lights crisscross above us like constellations, twinkling against the evening sky.
Sculpted hedges and glass railings line the edges of the terrace, framing a panoramic view of the skyline below. But no one’s looking out.
All eyes are on us.
The recruits.
I grip my champagne glass a little tighter, the chilled flute dampening my fingertips as I force a breath past the tension building in my chest. The patio is overflowing with power. You can feel it pressing against your skin like static.
Suits that cost more than my rent. Smiles that don’t reach their eyes. Watches that gleam beneath cufflinks and perfectly tailored sleeves.
They’re not all men. A handful of women linger in the mix too—sharp, composed, commanding. Ledger Companions and prospective clients alike.
I spot two of the senior Companions weaving through the space—effortless, radiant, magnetic. They greet sponsors with kisses on cheeks and sly smirks, pausing to speak to the girls and subtly steer conversations.
They’re not here for contracts tonight.
They’re here to help us.
Thank God.
I’ve made it through my first three conversations without spilling a drink or saying anything humiliating. I’m counting that as a win.
The first was with a man who runs a global logistics empire. Kind, in a calculating way. He asked me what I thought of the Ledger’s mission. I said something about confidence, trust, curated companionship—at least I hope I did. My mouth was dry and my mind was racing but he nodded, intrigued.
The second was an author.
Famous, apparently.
He was surprisingly charming—eccentric in a genius sort of way—and far more interested in me than I expected.
The third was… odd.
Too charming. Too polished.
Like a veneer over something rotting underneath.
A senior Companion named Bianca stepped in halfway through the conversation with a gentle hand on my arm and a subtle redirect. I don’t know what she saw, but I was grateful all the same.
It’s been just over an hour. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My heart is still racing.
But I’m doing it.
I’m remembering what Eve told us: Eye contact, good posture, curious but not overeager. You’re not selling yourself. You’re showing them what they could never afford anywhere else.
So, I stand a little taller. Keep my chin up. My shoulders back. I sip slowly and move deliberately—like I’ve been doing this forever.
But the truth is?
I’m still just the girl who’s still paying off credit card debt.
Still looking for another job.
Still deciding who she is.
And right now?
She’s a woman in bone-white, walking among wolves—and holding her own.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I reach for another flute of champagne from a passing tray, hoping the bubbles will do something to loosen the tight coil in my chest.
And then the air shifts.
Like a breeze cutting through velvet, so subtle and sharp it makes the hairs on my arms rise.
A hush spreads—not obvious, but present. A subtle recalibration in the room, like every man just straightened his posture. Like every Companion turned her head in unspoken recognition.
I don’t have to look to know he’s here.
Lucian Vale.
My fingers tighten around the delicate stem of my glass. My breath stalls.
He steps into the space like it belongs to him—and it does. Black suit. Crisp white shirt. No tie. The top buttons undone just enough to hint at something dangerous beneath the surface. Everything about him is clean, restrained, and devastating.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
He moves like a man who doesn’t chase power because power follows him.
For a beat, I forget the conversations around me, the sponsors milling about, the other girls smiling and laughing on cue. My focus narrows to one man.
Lucian.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the rooftop of The Masquerade. Since the night he broke my manager’s face and handed me the key to a life I didn’t even know I could want.
And now he’s here.
My pulse skips, quickens. My skin flushes, and suddenly the patio feels too warm.
I catch glimpses of him through the crowd—moving slowly, greeting a few high-rolling sponsors, exchanging brief words with senior Companions. Nothing over the top. Just enough to remind everyone who runs this empire.
And I can’t stop looking for him.
I try to focus on the conversation I’m in, nodding along as a kind older man compliments the structure of the mixer and asks polite questions about how training has gone so far. I give thoughtful answers. I remember my posture. I smile like Eve taught.
This is the job.
Mingle with the sponsors. Engage. Impress.
And I’m doing it. I am.
But it’s hard to stay present when I can feel him behind me. Not literally—he hasn’t come near me. But the awareness of him, of where he is in the room, is magnetic.
I track him without trying to. His broad frame leans in to speak with one of the senior Companions, the deep timbre of his voice cutting through the hum of polite conversation. He speaks low, controlled—but it carries, just enough to stand out.
Like him.
I tell myself not to look. To focus. To keep my eyes on the man in front of me. But every time Lucian moves into my periphery, I feel it.
And every time I chance a glance—he’s already looking away.
My skin prickles. My mind spins.
Eventually, I slip away to the bar and set down my half-finished champagne. “Club soda with lime,” I tell the bartender, needing the grounding of something cold and sober.
Bubbles rise in the glass, and I take a slow sip, exhaling as I turn back to the crowd.
He shouldn’t be the distraction. He’s the damn owner. He’s off-limits. I’m pretty sure even thinking about him like this is against some unspoken rule. Maybe an actual one.
But the more I try to push him out of my mind… the more it feels like he’s already there.
Because he is.
I feel it before I see it. That electric awareness that prickles up the back of my neck like a warning.
His gaze is on me.
My fingers tighten around the glass as I slowly scan the room—just in time to catch him walking directly toward me.
It’s like watching a storm cross calm waters. Controlled power. Quiet menace. He’s not hurrying. He doesn’t need to. The space clears around him as if the room parts to make way for the man who owns it.
And somehow, I don’t move.
My breath stalls, but I lift my chin, meeting him head-on as he reaches me at the bar.
“Miss Knight,” he says, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. “Enjoying the evening?”
I blink once. Of course he already knows my name.
I hope I’m hiding how much that affects me.
“Mr. Vale,” I nod, willing my voice to stay steady. “I am. It’s… a lot to take in.”
A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. It’s barely there. “That’s the point.”
He pauses, his gaze sliding over me—not in a way that feels lecherous, but like he’s reading something between the lines of my expression. Maybe even beneath my skin.
“You surprised me,” he says.
I arch a brow, caught off guard. “How so?”
His eyes don’t waver. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”
That lands. Harder than it should.
I reach for my glass, giving myself a second before I answer. “Then why give me the card?”
Lucian studies me for a long moment, the weight of his gaze a pressure I feel in my chest, my spine, my pulse.
“That’s a question,” he says finally, “you’ll answer over time.”
His tone is unreadable. Smooth. Dismissive, maybe. Or patient.
“Or you won’t,” he adds simply.
I swallow, unsure whether it was a challenge, or something else entirely.
But I can’t stop myself.
“Well, you’re the expert. How am I doing so far?” I ask, careful to keep my tone even, even as something inside me twists with the question.
Lucian doesn’t answer right away.
He just looks at me.
And not the way most men do. He’s not undressing me with his eyes or cataloging my features. He’s reading something deeper. Searching for something I don’t even know if I’m showing.
My stomach tightens under the weight of it.
Then—he moves.
One step closer. His hand settles lightly at the small of my back. Not inappropriate. Not even intimate. But I feel it like a brand. A press of awareness against my body that makes my breath catch.
He leans in, his lips brushing near my ear as he gently turns me by the waist, angling me toward another conversation across the room.
“Watch her,” he murmurs.
I do.
A stunning brunette in a tight navy dress is engaged with a man who looks like he could buy half the city. She’s smiling, laughing softly, touching his forearm every chance she gets.
She’s perfect. Effortless.
Until Lucian speaks again.
“See how she forces the conversation? How she leans in too much?” His voice is low. Private. Every word slides down my spine like silk wrapped around steel. “Desperation isn’t enticing.”
The air leaves my lungs. I’m clenching around nothing, and my knees press slightly together before I can stop them.
God. His voice alone shouldn’t make me this hot. But it does.
Lucian steps back, just enough to release the warmth of his presence, and straightens his cuffs with unhurried ease.
Then he meets my eyes.
“Don’t do what she did,” he says softly. “Be better.”
Lucian’s eyes flick to something behind me—someone else, maybe—and he gives the faintest nod. Then his eyes are back on mine.
“Show me.”
Then he steps back, that cool, controlled presence folding into the crowd once again like smoke in the air. Leaving me breathless.
And burning.