Damian Marley leaned against the wall, a glass of wine swirling lazily in his hand. His eyes tracked the woman laughing at the table across the room, her silver mask hiding half her face—but not her identity.
Queen.
She clinked glasses with a foreign minister, laughed at some sleazy joke from a shipping tycoon, and tilted her head as a duke whispered something in her ear. But behind her, Alexander Quinn stood still—like a wall of black velvet and steel.
His presence said everything: Touch her and die.
Every man at that table sensed it. No one dared let their hands wander, no matter how deep the wine flowed. The richest man in Europe didn't need words. His narrowed eyes were enough.
But Iris?
She was flushed from the wine, her laughter a touch too airy, her smile slipping when she blinked a little too slow. Her alcohol tolerance had always been terrible—and now, it showed.
"I think I need the ladies' room," she mumbled, heels wobbling as she stood.
Alexander caught her elbow.
"I'll follow," he said, voice like velvet wrapped in steel.
Iris blinked up at him, cheeks pink. "What—are you serious?"
His gaze didn't shift.
She squinted. "Should I call you my bodyguard now?"
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Call me whatever you like. I'm not letting you walk into a hallway full of men who look at you like prey."
She rolled her eyes and pulled away. "I can take care of myself."
"Right now, you can barely walk straight."
She turned sharply. "I'm fine."
"Should I carry you then?" he said, maddeningly calm.
Her mouth opened—then closed.
"Perv," she muttered under her breath, walking faster than necessary.
He didn't follow. But his eyes did.
And when she didn't return after several minutes, Alexander Quinn was already moving.
Because no one touches his Queen—and walks away whole.
Iris stepped out of the bathroom into a hallway that was too quiet.
Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor. The champagne haze blurred the lights—and that's when she saw him.
Damian Marley.
Leaning casually near the doorway, swirling wine, watching her.
Her steps faltered.
What the hell is he doing here?
She didn't want trouble. Not tonight. So she straightened her spine and walked past him like he was air.
"Leaving so soon, Queen?" Damian's voice slid through the silence, smooth and mocking.
She didn't answer.
He pushed off the wall and followed.
"You were quite the show tonight," he said low and suggestive. "That dance... it wasn't meant for just anyone, was it?"
Iris turned slowly. "Back off, Mr. Damian. I'm not interested."
He only chuckled and stepped into her space. "Don't play shy. You've been teasing every man in that room."
"I said move," she snapped.
But he grabbed her wrist—not hard, but enough.
"You looked good out there. Would be a shame to waste it."
She tried to pull away. Her limbs felt heavy. The champagne had dulled her reflexes. His hand brushed her cheek.
"You shouldn't—" she whispered.
"Why not?" he leaned in, smug. "No one's coming for you."
Wrong.
A low voice sliced the air. "You have five seconds to let her go."
Damian froze.
He turned—and saw Alexander Quinn.
Black suit. Cold eyes. Rage simmering like lava beneath ice.
"The Ice King," Damian scoffed. "Didn't know you went soft for stage girls."
Alexander didn't reply.
He moved.
A single punch cracked across Damian's face. Then another. Blood bloomed. Damian hit the wall and slid down.
Alexander grabbed him by the collar and hissed, "Touch her again and I'll ruin your name, your face, and everything you think you own."
He let Damian drop.
"Get rid of him," he barked.
Security moved fast.
Then Alexander turned to Iris, who was slumped against the wall, barely upright. Without hesitation, he swept her into his arms.
In the grand ballroom, laughter and music choked to a sudden hush.
All five of them turned.
Adam squinted. "Wait… Is that Quinn?"
Jules dropped his fork. "No freaking way."
Alexander Quinn—the man who never looked at a woman twice—was carrying one.
Remi stared. "That's the girl from the red set… Queen."
Tyron's jaw dropped. "You mean the one who had everyone choking on their drinks?"
Elijah ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell happened in the last ten minutes?"
They all watched in silence.
Alexander disappeared down the hallway, holding the woman like she was made of glass.
And for the first time ever, the most untouchable man in Europe… had been touched.
-------
Teaser for the day
Their first meeting? He first laid eyes on her during a high-stakes heist—her hands already on the painting.
But their next meeting as Iris, a mysterious dancer known only as "Queen," never expected to catch the eye of Alexander Quinn—Europe's richest and coldest man.
He doesn't do relationships. He doesn't even spare women a glance.
But when a drunk VIP corners Iris in a quiet hallway, Alexander steps in like a storm. One punch, and the predator is on the floor. One look, and the entire ballroom goes silent.
Then, to everyone's shock… he picks her up. In his arms. Like she means something.
Now the whole elite world is watching.
Why her?
What is she to him?
And most importantly…
what happens when the coldest man alive starts to feel?
Think that was intense? Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. There's more drama, more danger, and way more sparks waiting in the next chapter. Stick around, because the best (and most chaotic) parts are still to come