Chapter 32
T onight, is the Companions Mixer.
It’s one of The Ledger’s most anticipated events—a curated, high-society evening where new and old clients mix and mingle with the Companions.
A social buffet, dressed up in silk and candlelight, where contracts are whispered over cocktails and glances hold promises. No one signs anything tonight, but deals begin here.
The trainees, all eight of us still under active sponsorship, are invited to attend—not to participate, not officially. We're still considered off-limits. But the exposure matters. It’s good practice, they say.
A chance to observe the game before we’re allowed to play.
And I fully intend to be there.
Lucian didn’t exactly forbid me from going.
When I had completed every ridiculously tedious task Lucian gave me today, he dismissed me with cold finality. Told me to go home. That I was done for the day.
His tone made it clear he didn’t want to see me again. Not tonight.
But he never said I couldn’t go to the mixer.
And when I watched the other girls heading downstairs to The Ledger’s private salon for hair, makeup, and wardrobe prep—laughing, talking, trailing clouds of perfume and confidence—I knew exactly what he was doing.
Lucian Vale didn’t want me there tonight.
So he told me to leave. Because if he’d forbidden me outright, I would’ve gone just to spite him.
But this? This is a manipulation cloaked in care.
And I’m going anyway.
It’s not about spite. Not entirely.
It’s about being seen.
About standing in the same room with him and daring him to pretend that I don’t matter—that two nights ago didn’t happen—that he didn’t taste me like I was the only thing on earth worth devouring.
I won’t let him rewrite us like that.
I’ve been building my wardrobe slowly, piece by piece. Learning from the stylists at the Ledger salon. Paying attention to how certain fabrics cling and how others whisper with movement.
I’ve gotten good at doing my own hair—mastering the art of the perfect blowout with a little bend at the ends, polished but not trying too hard.
And the winged liner, smokey.
Just the right amount of drama to draw attention to my eyes without turning them into weapons.
Tonight, I chose powder blue.
The dress is a sleek mini with a square neckline and sculpted seams that hug me in all the right places. It makes my eyes look richer somehow—deep royal blue instead of soft sky. The color is gentle, romantic. Innocent.
Which is why it’s perfect.
Because nothing about tonight is innocent.
I dab perfume at the base of my neck, behind my ears, and down the valley between my breasts. A warm, addictive scent—amber and vanilla and something sinful beneath it all.
I take one last look in the mirror.
My auburn hair catches the light just right. My dress fits like it was made for me. My makeup is a careful whisper of seduction.
My phone pings, a message the ride-share driver is a few minutes away.
I grab my clutch, ready to make Lucian eat his fucking words tonight.
* * *
I arrive fashionably late.
Not so late it raises eyebrows—but just enough that the room has settled into its rhythm. The initial introductions are already made, the energy humming at that perfect midpoint between excitement and indulgence.
Exactly how I wanted it.
The event space is stunning, as always—low lighting, gold accents, and the quiet undercurrent of money pulsing through the air like an unspoken language.
Elegant laughter. Clinking crystal.
A room full of people pretending they’re not here to buy each other.
And just as I suspected, most of the girls are dressed in black—satin, silk, leather. The unofficial Ledger uniform for mixers and midnight seduction. But me?
Powder blue.
Soft, romantic, memorable.
I stand out in the sea of shadows like a dangerous dream, and I can feel it immediately—the subtle shift in attention as heads turn in my direction.
I smile, poised and polite, offering a graceful wave to a few Companions I recognize from training sessions. One of them arches a brow at me in surprise. The other just smirks knowingly.
But it’s the clients I’m here for.
And I don’t have to wait long.
“Miss Knight,” a deep voice greets me near the bar. “I was wondering if we’d see you tonight.”
I turn and immediately recognize him—an older gentleman with silver at his temples and a designer watch peeking from beneath his cuff. I met him briefly at the sponsor mixer. His name comes easily.
“Mr. Langston,” I reply warmly. “Still wearing Tom Ford. Still refusing to dance?”
He laughs, clearly delighted I remembered. “Guilty on both counts.” He takes a flute of champagne from a passing tray and offers it to me with a wink. “Though I might consider breaking that rule, for you.”
I accept the glass with a tilt of my head. “Tempting.”
He leans in slightly. “I was disappointed, you know. When Lucian pulled you off the sponsor roster.”
My smile doesn’t waver, but something sharp pierces through me. “Oh?”
“There was nearly a brawl over who would get the bid.” He chuckles, sipping from his own glass. “I was certain my bid would win. I heard you were the highest bidding trainee in a long time… possibly ever.”
The words land like a slap.
And yet I keep smiling.
Because I remember that day. Sitting in that room, thinking no one had bid for me. That I had somehow failed before I even began. That I was being fired.
Lucian let me believe it.
He watched me squirm. Let me unravel. All while he was the one who outbid everyone else, who claimed me without a word.
So, that is why the “top girl” didn’t get first pick of sponsors. Because I was the top girl. And someone did the honor of picking for me.
The heat beneath my skin sharpens. My anger curls low and quiet, fueled not just by the betrayal—but by the control.
Fine.
If he wants to play games, I’ll show him just how dangerous I can be when I stop pretending not to care.
I thank Mr. Langston with a polite nod and begin scanning the room, hunting.
I’m not here to flirt with the same old names. I’m here to make a point.
Looking across the gathered crowd it doesn’t take me long to find my perfect partners in this scheme.
A group of five—clustered near the back of the room, slightly apart from the central buzz of conversation. They look new. Late twenties.. Clean-cut. Fit.
Wealth practically dripping from their expensive shoes and the watches they can’t stop adjusting. No visible tattoos. Just money, nerves, and curiosity.
They must be brand new clients.
They’re clearly unsure how to approach the Companions, still working out how this world operates.
Perfect.
I run my hand slowly through my hair, fingers sliding through the waves I spent an hour perfecting. Two of them notice immediately, eyes locking on mine.
Bingo.
I tip my head, letting my gaze linger. A smile plays at the edge of my lips.
Time to work.
Time to be unforgettable.
And time to make Lucian fucking regret ever thinking he could control me.
They’re exactly as I hoped—eager, attractive, just uncertain enough to be grateful for my attention.
My approach is subtle.
Just enough flirtation to stir the air between us, never too much. I laugh lightly at their jokes, tilt my head when one of them says something clever, make a small comment about his cufflinks that has the whole group trying to flash theirs next.
And they eat it up.
For thirty minutes, I work them like pawns on my own personal chessboard, slowly wrapping each one around my finger until they’re orbiting me like planets.
And right on cue, just as one leans in to murmur something harmless in my ear—something about how the music makes it hard to hear but he’d love to get to know me better —Lucian arrives.
I don’t need to look to know.
I feel him enter the room.
His presence slices through the atmosphere like a blade, sharp and cold, shifting the energy without a single word. My breath catches before I can stop it, my pulse flickering. Then I glance up—slow, measured.
Our eyes lock.
There he is.
Lucian Vale in a black tux that was clearly made for his body and no one else. Impossibly calm. Thunderously still. His steel-gray gaze is locked on me, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight: me surrounded by five men, one whispering in my ear, my champagne glass tilted delicately in my hand.
I arch a brow at him—not in challenge, but in acknowledgment. As if to say, Of course I’m here. Why wouldn’t I be?
I think he’ll storm over. I expect it.
But instead, he’s intercepted—two clients corner him, hands on his arm, laughter in their voices as they try to draw him into conversation.
He listens. Barely.
But he doesn’t break eye contact with me for a full three seconds before finally tearing his gaze away.
I hide my smirk behind the rim of my glass.
Let’s see how far I can push you.
“These shoes are killing me,” I murmur lightly to the group, casting a look at the wide square planter behind me—an oversized decorative piece doubling as furniture. “If I could get up there without flashing the entire party, I would.”
One of them—tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired—takes the bait like I hoped.
“Need a lift, sweetheart?” he asks, already stepping closer.
“You’d be my hero,” I reply with a teasing smile.
He grins, sliding his hands around my ribs—his palms warm through the fabric of my dress—and lifts me easily onto the ledge. I let my legs cross slowly, smoothing my skirt down just enough to remain elegant while still playing the part.
I rest my hand on his shoulder a moment longer than necessary. Letting it linger.
“Oh, so strong,” I say with a small, playful squeeze of his bicep. It’s ridiculous, transparent, but exactly what they want to hear.
“Fresh champagne, darlin’,” another one says, snagging a flute from a passing tray and offering it to me with a wink.
I lower my lashes, feigning bashfulness. “You boys better stop spoiling me. I may want more.”
They’re practically fawning now, clustered around me like I’m their sun and they’re trying to earn the right to be in my path.
Compliments fly, subtle touches land. But my focus never really leaves him .
Because I can feel Lucian watching me.
Like daggers dragging down my spine.
His gaze is a weight, burning holes through silk and skin. I don’t even need to see him to know—he’s getting closer now. Not storming. Not obvious. But with the slow, lethal grace of a tiger stalking prey.
And still, I tip him further.
I run my hand through my hair, flipping it over one shoulder in that offhand way that always seems so innocent.
The man who lifted me takes the bait.
“God, your perfume smells so good.”
“Care for a closer sample?” I ask sweetly, turning my head just enough to expose the soft curve of my neck.
He moves in without hesitation. His hand slides around my waist, resting on my hip as he leans forward. His breath is warm against my skin. He inhales deeply, a faint growl slipping from his throat.
If it had been Lucian, I would’ve flooded my panties right there.
But this?
This is just for show.
And it’s working perfectly .
Lucian gives up all pretense the moment he breaks through the edge of the crowd.
Gone is the cool composure.
Gone is the carefully practiced detachment.
What walks toward me now is a tightly coiled storm, a man seconds from implosion. Every step is silent and dangerous, heat radiating off him like static before lightning strikes.
He reaches us, eyes locked on mine, and without a word, he plucks the champagne glass from my hand. Turns and gives it right back to the man who gave it to me.
“Lucian,” I say, caught between surprise and warning, my tone threaded with a not-so-subtle don’t-be-an-asshole edge.
“You’re needed inside,” he replies coldly, his voice low and sharp as steel. His hands find my hips, and with one firm motion, I’m off the ledge and standing in front of him before I can so much as blink.
His hand slides low across my back, guiding me away from the men like I’m nothing more than a prop being rearranged. “Excuse her,” he says flatly to the group behind me.
And then he pushes me forward—toward the arched doorway at the far end of the patio, away from the party, the lights, the spectacle I so carefully created.
“You are not going to do this,” I hiss, my voice low but furious, barely keeping up as he drives us through the crowd.
“I’ll do what the fuck I want with my trainee,” he growls, his fingers moving from my back to my upper arm, gripping me hard enough that I almost stumble.
“Let go of me,” I snarl under my breath.
“Never, Angel.”
The name slams into me. Low and reverent and filthy, all at once. It’s a curse and a caress, and I hate how it makes me shiver.
We step inside, the elevator ahead of us. The doors open with a soft chime, revealing two Companions laughing as they exit—until they see Lucian’s face.
They part like the sea.
He pushes me in without hesitation, following me into the sleek, mirrored interior like a wolf corralling prey. The doors slide closed behind us, sealing us in.
Then he punches the button for the top floor.
Hard.
So hard I swear I hear the plastic flex beneath his knuckle. The number glows red. The elevator hums to life.
But I don’t have time to process any of it.
Because Lucian turns on me before the doors even shut completely.
He presses me back against the wall in one fluid movement, his hand on my throat as he tears at the knot of his tie, yanking it loose with a sharp jerk.
His eyes burn into mine—anger, possession, lust—every raw edge of the man he tries so hard not to be.
“Take your fucking panties off,” he growls, voice gravel and fire, every word dragged from a place he can no longer suppress.
My heart stutters. Heat floods me instantly.
I back slowly into the corner, my breath shallow, fingers reaching for the hem of my dress. But before I can even draw it up, Lucian drops to his knees in front of me—and the air is stolen from my lungs.
He doesn't say a word.
In one swift, commanding motion, the hem of my dress is shoved up around my waist. The cool elevator air hits my thighs as his hands hook into the sides of my panties and yanks them down.
I barely manage to step one foot free before he punches the emergency stop button behind him. The elevator glides gently to a halt, a soft alarm beginning to pulse above us.
It doesn’t matter.
None of it matters.
Because his mouth is on me.
I gasp, hard, my hand flying to his hair to hold on—no, to anchor myself.
One of his hands grips my ass tightly, the other anchoring my thigh up and over his shoulder. My back presses deeper into the corner, but there’s no escape.
Lucian is eating me like he’s furious I ever gave anyone else a taste of me.
His tongue is relentless, every movement sharp and deliberate, circling, pressing, sucking on my clit until I’m gasping his name on every exhale.
He growls into me, the vibration shaking through my core.
He's going to take everything I have and suck it out of me through my cunt.
When he lifts my other leg and drapes it over his opposite shoulder, I cry out, caught off guard as he supports all my weight with infuriating ease. My heels slide against his back as I clutch his head tighter, hips rolling toward him without a thought of control.
I’m completely at his mercy—his face buried between my thighs, devouring me like a starving man who’s found the only meal that will save him. His nose presses against me, his mouth utterly ruthless, his grip bruising in the best possible way.
It doesn’t take long.
A minute, maybe two.
Then I’m coming undone, my eyes squeezing shut as the orgasm slams through me like a wave I never saw coming. My head drops back with a moan that might border on a sob. My legs shake, my body trembling in his hold as he keeps going until I’m whimpering for breath.
He sets me down roughly, still on his knees, his hands releasing me only when I can stand again.
My panties hang around one ankle. I start to bend to fix them, breathless and dazed, but Lucian’s already standing, towering over me.
He reaches over, hits the emergency stop button again.
The soft alarm ceases. The elevator lurches into motion, resuming its swift climb.
I don’t even have time to recover before his hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back with a sharp tug.
“You won’t need those,” he snarls, his mouth crashing into mine, swallowing my breath like it’s his to claim.
The kiss is brutal, consuming. His tongue invades, his teeth graze, and it’s all heat and fury and desperation as he presses me back into the wall with his full weight.
I can feel every hard, unrelenting inch of him.
There’s nowhere to run.
And God help me?—
I don’t want to.