Chapter 7
Elijah
The dress box sat on the black marble island of the kitchen, looking like a bomb threat wrapped in white satin ribbon.
I adjusted my cufflinks—onyx, severe, expensive—and stared at it.
I had ordered it from a boutique in Paris three days ago, expedited shipping that cost more than most people’s rent.
It wasn't a gift. It was a uniform. That’s what I told myself.
Tonight was the Sterling Athletics Casino Night Fundraiser.
It was a high-visibility event. Donors, alumni, press.
If Angela Moretti was going to be on my arm, she needed to look the part.
She needed to look untouchable.
But as I stood there in my tuxedo, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes, I felt a foreign sensation in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't the cold calculation of a business deal. It was... fluttering.
Nervousness.
I was Elijah Vance. I didn't get nervous. I played in front of twenty thousand screaming fans without a spike in my heart rate. But the thought of Angela walking out of that hallway wearing that dress made my palms sweat.
"Elijah?"
Her voice drifted from the hallway, hesitant.
I turned.
And the air left the room.
Angela stood in the archway. The dress was emerald green silk, cut on the bias so it poured over her body like liquid metal.
It had a high neck in the front, deceptively modest, but when she turned slightly, I saw the back plunged dangerously low, exposing the delicate ridge of her spine.
It had a slit that went up to her thigh—a strategic architectural choice I now realized was going to be the death of me.
She had her hair up in a sleek twist, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. She looked expensive. She looked regal.
She looked terrified.
She plucked at the skirt nervously. "Is it... too much? I feel like I’m wearing a car payment."
I didn't speak. I walked toward her. I couldn't help it. My body moved on a gravitational pull.
I stopped two feet in front of her. I could smell the vanilla scent of her skin mixed with the newness of the silk.
"It’s not too much," I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. "It’s perfect."
"It fits weird," she muttered, turning around to show me the back. "The zipper is stuck at the top. I can't reach it."
The view of her back—the expanse of creamy skin framed by the green silk—hit me like a physical blow. I stared at the small silver zipper tab resting just between her shoulder blades.
"Allow me," I murmured.
I stepped closer. I reached out with my left hand—my good hand—and brushed her hair aside. My fingers grazed the nape of her neck. She shivered. I felt the tremor run through her body, a direct response to my touch.
"Hold still," I whispered.
I took the zipper and pulled it up the final inch. The sound was a soft zzzip that felt incredibly loud in the quiet penthouse. I didn't pull my hand away immediately. I rested my palm flat against her back, skin to skin.
"You look..." I struggled for the word. Beautiful was too weak. Sexy was too crude. "You look like you belong to me."
She turned her head to look at me over her shoulder, her eyes wide and dark. "Is that a compliment?"
"It’s the highest one I can give."
"You look okay too, Vance," she said, her lips twitching with a suppressed smile. "For a penguin."
I smirked, stepping back to regain my sanity. "Let’s go. The sharks are waiting."
The Casino Night was held in the Grand Ballroom of the Summit Hotel, thirty floors down. It was convenient, but it meant we were entering the lion’s den without a buffer.
The room was a sensory assault of clinking glass, jazz music, and the distinct, aggressive chatter of wealthy people drinking free scotch. Roulette wheels spun, dice clattered, and cards snapped against felt.
As soon as we walked in, the atmosphere shifted.
I felt it immediately—the collective swivel of heads. The whispers. The judgment.
There he is.
That’s the girl.
The thief’s daughter.
Look at that dress.
I tightened my grip on Angela’s hand. I had her tuck it into the crook of my elbow, keeping her close.
"Chin up," I murmured against her ear. "You’re better than everyone in this room. Act like it."
"Easy for you to say," she hissed back, though her smile remained plastered on her face. "You own the building. I’m pretty sure half the board members here are the ones who voted to expel me."
"And tonight, they’re going to watch you spend my chips," I said. "Let’s get a drink."
We navigated the crowd. It was a gauntlet. People stopped us every five feet.
"Elijah! Great season so far."
"Mr. Vance, give my regards to your father."
I nodded, shook hands, and offered polite, empty pleasantries. Angela stood by my side, silent but poised. She held herself with the discipline of a dancer—spine straight, chin high. She was terrified, I knew, but her mask was flawless.
"Well, if it isn't the happy couple."
We stopped near the craps table. Mrs. Vanderwal was blocking our path. She was the wife of the University’s biggest donor, a woman who wore diamonds the size of grapes and had a soul made of sandpaper.
She looked Angela up and down, her lip curling in a sneer that was barely concealed by social niceties.
"Angela Moretti," she drawled. "I was surprised to see your name on the guest list. I assumed... given your family’s financial situation... tickets would be out of reach."
The air around us froze. It was a direct hit. A public reminder of her poverty and her father’s disgrace.
I felt the anger flare in my chest—hot, white, and violent. I opened my mouth to eviscerate the woman. I was going to mention her husband’s penchant for offshore accounts, or perhaps her own well-known affair with the tennis coach.
But Angela beat me to it.
She didn't flinch. She didn't look down. She smiled—a genuine, dazzling smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Mrs. Vanderwal," Angela said, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "It’s lovely to see you. And you’re right, the tickets are quite expensive.
Fortunately, Elijah insists on handling the finances.
He says I should focus my energy on more important things.
Like the Arts program your husband so generously supports. "
She took a sip of her champagne, then added, "By the way, I loved your speech at the gala last year about 'community integrity.' It was so... inspiring. I think about it often."
Mrs. Vanderwal turned a shade of puce that clashed horribly with her dress. She knew exactly what Angela was doing—politely reminding her that she was the one being rude, while Angela was taking the high road.
"Enjoy your evening," Mrs. Vanderwal choked out, before turning and fleeing toward the bar.
I stared at Angela.
"Did you just..." I started, a laugh bubbling up in my chest. "Did you just shame a billionaire’s wife with kindness?"
Angela took a long drink of her champagne, her cheeks flushed pink. "She was looking at my shoes like they were from Goodwill. They’re Louboutins, Elijah. You bought them."
"I know."
"I hate her," Angela whispered, leaning into my shoulder. "Can we go gamble now? I want to win something."
I looked down at her. The fierce set of her jaw. The fire in her eyes. The way she instinctively leaned into me for support, not out of weakness, but out of partnership.
My chest ached. It was a sharp, terrifying pain.
"Yeah," I said, covering her hand with mine. "Let’s go take their money."
We ended up at the Roulette table.
It was crowded, loud, and energetic. Perfect cover.
I bought in for five thousand dollars in chips—play money for charity, but the competitive instinct was real. I handed half the stack to Angela.
"What do I do?" she asked, looking at the spinning wheel.
"Pick a number," I said, standing behind her. I placed my hands on her waist, my thumbs rubbing circles into the silk. I felt her breath hitch. "Or a color. Red or Black is safe. Single numbers pay thirty-five to one."
"Safe is boring," she muttered.
She leaned over the table. The slit in her dress gaped open, revealing a mile of leg. I saw three guys on the other side of the table swallow hard.
My hands tightened on her waist. Mine.
"Seventeen," she announced, placing a tall stack of chips on the number.
"Black seventeen?" the croupier asked.
"Black seventeen," she confirmed.
"That’s a risky bet, sweetheart," a guy next to us laughed. He was wearing a tie with hockey sticks on it. "The odds are terrible."
"Elijah likes risks," Angela said, glancing back at me over her shoulder. Her eyes were dark, teasing. "Don't you, baby?"
The endearment slipped out so naturally it nearly stopped my heart. Baby.
"I like calculated risks," I corrected, leaning down to bite gently at the shell of her ear. "But I trust your instincts."
"No more bets!" the croupier called.
The ball clattered around the wheel. Click-click-click. The table went silent. Everyone watched the white marble blur.
Angela leaned back against my chest. Her body molded to mine perfectly. I rested my chin on the top of her head, inhaling her scent. For a moment, the noise of the casino faded. It was just us. The heat of her back against my chest. The solid weight of her in my arms.
It felt... right. It felt terrifyingly permanent.
Click.
The ball dropped. It bounced once, twice... and settled into a slot.
"Black Seventeen!" the croupier shouted.
The table erupted.
Angela screamed. She spun around in my arms, her face lighting up with pure, unadulterated joy.
"We won!" she yelled. "Elijah, we won!"
She threw her arms around my neck. Without thinking, I caught her. I lifted her off the ground, spinning her around once as she laughed.
It wasn't a performance. It wasn't for the cameras or the donors. It was just... happiness.
She looked down at me, still in my arms, her face inches from mine. The laughter died on her lips, replaced by something heavier. Intense.
We stared at each other.
"You’re good luck," I whispered.
"I’m chaos," she corrected softly.
"Maybe I like chaos."