Chapter 19
ALOIS
Ididn’t let her go.
Not right away.
My hand was at her waist, fingers spread, anchored.
Tu es d’une beauté renversante. The words breathed out of me so effortlessly. Stunningly beautiful didn’t even come close to touching her radiance.
The deep green of her dress wasn’t just a color—it moved.
Dark as forest shadow where the light didn’t reach, catching gold where it did, shifting with every breath she took like it had a life of its own.
The fabric skimmed her body instead of clinging, but I felt every line of her through it—heat under silk, the subtle rise and fall beneath my hand, the tension she was holding just under the surface.
My thumb pressed in slightly without permission.
Her skin was warm. Warmer than it should have been.
Her shoulder caught the light as we stepped forward, bare and smooth, the curve of it clean and deliberate before it disappeared into the structured line of the gown.
My gaze followed it without thinking—down the length of her arm, the controlled set of her wrist, the way her fingers flexed once like she was grounding herself.
The scent of her cut through everything else—through the liquor, the perfume, the polished air of the room—something softer, warmer, closer. It stayed in my head longer than it should have. Longer than anything in a place like this had a right to.
The light hit us as we stepped down the stairs and into the main ballroom—gold and glass and reflection layered over itself until the entire room felt like it had been polished within an inch of its life.
It caught on the edge of her shoulder, slid down the line of her arm, fractured in the dark sheen of the floor beneath us.
I adjusted my grip without thinking—subtle, easy—my thumb shifting slightly against her side before I finally forced myself to step back.
My gaze moved without stopping, picking out faces I recognized—owners, investors, men who signed contracts and called it strategy. Women who didn’t need to speak to control a conversation.
I’d seen rooms like this before. I just didn’t belong to them.
“Try not to look like you’re planning an exit strategy.” Bea’s accent came from just beside me—low, even, threaded tight enough that anyone else would’ve missed it.
I didn’t look at her immediately. “Habit.”
That pulled her attention. “It shows.”
I felt it before I turned—sharp, assessing, like she was trying to decide if I was serious or just difficult on principle.
When I finally looked at her—it hit. Harder than it should have.
She didn’t just fit here. She shifted into it.
The woman who’d stood in front of me minutes ago—close enough that I could feel the heat of her, hear the change in her breathing when I spoke—felt contained then, like something held tight beneath the surface.
Not small. Never small. Just… restrained.
And now—she was unfolding.
Not a transformation anyone in this room would recognize for what it was.
Not dramatic. Not obvious. But I saw it.
The slow, deliberate unfurling of something that had always been there, finally given the space to stretch into itself.
The butterfly wasn’t delicate—it was precise.
Controlled. Every movement intentional as she stepped forward, ready to move through the room like she owned the air in it.
Her posture shifted first. Spine straightening just enough to carry authority without asking for it.
Shoulders settling into something deliberate.
Expression smoothing out until there was nothing left for anyone to read unless she wanted them to.
Everything about her was intentional.
Everything except what had just happened between us.
She didn’t look at me again.
She was already moving—stepping forward, sliding into the rhythm of the room like she’d been doing it her entire life. Conversations opened for her. People adjusted around her. Smiles exchanged, measured, controlled.
Effective.
And just like that—she was gone. Still in front of me. Still within reach.
But absorbed into it.
My jaw tightened. I hated that I wanted to closer. Hated that my body instantly felt her absence. Damned the way the eyes always fell back to her. And I loathed the way all of it was melting into a complete lie.
I let the thoughts die where they started. Shifted focus. Across the room.
Rawlings stood near the bar, exactly where he would’ve placed himself—visible enough to be found, removed enough to make people come to him. A drink in his hand he hadn’t touched. Posture relaxed in a way that wasn’t relaxed at all.
Char stood beside him, angled just slightly away, like she was already bored of the entire thing. Glass in hand, expression untouched by anything happening around her. Detached. Amused. Useful to him in ways that had nothing to do with loyalty.
I didn’t move toward them. Instead, I tracked Bea.
Not hovering. Not obvious. Just aware.
She moved clean through the room—engaging, redirecting, exiting conversations before they had the chance to overstay their usefulness. No wasted motion. No excess.
Until—her head turned.
Sharp. Her body followed a half second later—shoulders tightening, attention locking onto something off to the side. The glass she’d been reaching for forgotten before her fingers touched it.
I didn’t hear it. Whatever it was. But I saw the impact. She pivoted without hesitation. Straight toward Rawlings.
My focus narrowed. I moved. Just… closing distance.
By the time I got halfway there, she was already in front of them.
Rawlings angled toward her like he’d been expecting it—like this had been the point all along.
“—if you’re smart,” he was saying, voice low, controlled, certain, “you’ll start thinking about where you land when this inevitably falls apart.”
Bea didn’t step back. Her chin lifted a fraction. “I’m not in the habit of planning for outcomes you’ve already decided for me.”
Char laughed. Soft. Sharp. Wrong.
“Confidence,” she murmured, not even looking at Bea. “Gotta hand it to the kid. She’s got spunk”
Rawlings smiled. “You’re protected right now,” he hissed. “That’s the only reason you’re standing here having this conversation.” His gaze dragged over her—evaluating, dismissive. “Ezra has his reasons. We’ll see how he feels once Alois fucks up yet again with his little princess in tow.”
Bea didn’t move.
“Excuse me?” Bea’s eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
He didn’t hesitate. A hand landed firmly on Bea’s shoulder before he hissed, “That’s when I clean house.”
The space shifted before anyone acknowledged it—my body cutting clean between them, forcing distance where there hadn’t been any. Bea disappeared from Rawlings’s line of sight as I tucked her safely behind my back.
My hand came up—controlled, deliberate—closing over his shoulder like it belonged there. Not aggressive. Not for show. My thumb pressed in at the hinge of his jaw.
Precise.
He felt it.
The micro-shift in his posture gave him away—barely there, barely noticeable—but I didn’t miss things like that. Men like him weren’t used to being handled.
Good.
I stepped closer. Only enough to make the point. “You don’t get to touch her,” I snarled. “You don’t get to speak to her like that.”
He understood exactly what I was doing. I let the silence stretch a fraction longer than it should have. Let it settle. Let it press.
“If you try it again—” I paused, not because I needed to, but because he did. Because I wanted him to feel the space where the rest of that sentence lived before I gave it to him. “—I won’t hold back.”
Rawlings held my stare. Long enough to make it look like he had a choice in how this went.
I watched the calculation happen anyway—watched him weigh it, measure it, decide what version of himself he was going to walk away with.
Then—he smiled. Tight. “Noted,” he choked.
I held him there a second longer. Just to make sure.
Then I let go.
Rawlings adjusted his jacket like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just been handled in a room full of people who would never know it.
Char didn’t move. Didn’t blink. If anything, she looked… entertained. Like she’d just watched something mildly interesting happen in the background of a night that didn’t challenger her.
Didn’t linger to see what Rawlings did next. Didn’t give him the chance to recover ground.
I turned—and she was already moving.
Her hand caught my wrist first. “Marcher,” telling me to walk under her breath.
I let her pull me through the crowd, through the noise, through the polished nothing of the room until the air shifted again—quieter, tighter, less curated.
“What the hell was that?” Bea snapped, turning on me fast enough that the movement cut through the space between us. “I didn’t need you to do that.”
I held her gaze.
“You shouldn’t have been there.”
Her hand came up—fast, sharp—fisting in the front of my jacket before I could move. “Stop,” she snapped. “Stop acting like I need—”
I was already done with the conversation. That’s when it broke.
Her grip tightened. And then—she shoved me.
Enough to send me back a step—through a door behind me.
Into dark.
Into fabric and dust and heat that didn’t belong to the rest of the building.
Her back hit the coats, her green dress a sigh against them. Her hands shoved hard against my chest.
“You had no right,” she hissed, the words a hot blade in the crack of light.
I filled the space, my gaze a cold fire. “He was threatening your job.”
“And I was winning! I don’t need you to step in. I don’t need you to claim me in front of two of my bosses.” Her breath came in quick, shallow pulls. The green silk shone faintly over the curve of her chest. “You performative brute.”
I could feel her heart beating a frantic rhythm against my chest. My body knew every inch of her frame pinned there.
I didn’t need to move. The closet was a cage and I was every bar. The air was heavy with wool and starch and the heat coming off her skin.