Grace Laurent knew how to enjoy a man without letting him matter.
Julian Sterling was her current indulgence.
Charming, ambitious, and attractive in the way most women craved. He was the kind of man who believed the room bent for him. But Grace never bent. She simply stood still and let others fall into orbit.
That morning, Élan Mode's headquarters shimmered in modern elegance. The top floor, redesigned with ivory marble, matte brass, and soft lighting, had a quiet opulence that whispered power rather than shouted it.
"The board meeting is at ten, Miss Laurent," said Eva Lorne, her best friend and General Counsel. Dressed in a sharp emerald blazer over a skin-tight leather pencil skirt, Eva radiated the kind of energy that turned heads and shattered egos. Her dark auburn hair was pinned into a sleek twist, and she walked like men were disposable.
Grace, in a deep navy sheath dress with an asymmetrical neckline and a diamond ear cuff shaped like a dagger, didn't glance up. "Let them wait ten minutes. Time should be reminded who it serves."
Eva smirked. "Still the queen of subtle cruelty."
When the two women entered the boardroom, silence rippled across the long table. Grace's heels struck like the ticking of an expensive watch. Men straightened their suits. Women adjusted their expressions.
The meeting ran sharp and fast—market shares, expansion plans, talent signings. When an older board member raised concerns over shifting campaign directions, Grace didn't blink. "Boldness frightens those who've only known safety. But Élan was never born from safety."
Not a single voice rose again.
By late afternoon, Grace returned to her penthouse. The skyline bathed her windows in gold.
She changed into an obsidian gown laced with silver thread, sleek, slit high on one thigh, with a neckline that scooped dangerously low in the back. Her hair was pulled into a high, intricate braid, jeweled pins glittering along the curve of her head. The smoky kohl around her grey eyes gave her an air of fatal seduction.
The venue tonight was a rooftop masquerade hosted at an exclusive members-only club in Riverton. Moonlight spilled across marble tiles and velvet canopies. Waiters served wine aged longer than most of the guests had lived.
Julian found her near the balcony, two glasses of champagne in hand. He wore a black velvet mask and a smirk to match. "You clean up dangerously well, Laurent."
She took the glass without looking. "Flattery. Predictable."
He chuckled. "It works."
They mingled, drank, and moved across the rooftop like a storm cloud dressed in silk and charm. When the music shifted to something slow and sultry, Julian led her to the dance floor. His hand curled at her waist, the other resting against the bare skin of her back.
They swayed. Bodies close, lips closer. He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "You feel like trouble."
"I am," she murmured.
Later, in the lounge, he pushed boundaries further. His fingers trailed the length of her thigh, disappearing beneath the slit of her gown. She allowed it. Not because she wanted him, but because she didn't care enough not to.
His lips brushed her collarbone.
Her breath caught.
Not from his touch, but from something else.
A weight. A pressure. Like someone watching her with enough intensity to bruise.
She glanced toward the open terrace. Her gaze scanning shadows and velvet drapes. Nothing.
Still, she stiffened subtly and pulled Julian's hand away.
"That's all for tonight," she said.
He frowned. "You always stop right before it gets interesting."
She smiled, cold and unbothered. "That's how legends are made."
And she walked away, leaving him half-drunk and half-hard.
Silas Vale stood near the exit, hidden in shadow.
It wasn't his first time seeing her.
He had known who she was, knew that she existed—whispers, glimpses, half-truths from gossip and gala columns. But today, seeing Grace Laurent in the flesh, he understood why obsession felt like a fever.
She was poetry wrapped in poison. A paradox in heels.
He watched her walk, speak, deny—each movement like a scene written only for his eyes. She didn't seek attention; she was the very gravity that made people turn.
Silas Vale did not blink. Something in him twisted tight.
It wasn't just desire.
It was possession, flaring hot and sudden, like a spark finding gasoline.
She was unreal. Too polished. Too perfect. The kind of woman carved not by chance, but by intention. She didn't simply exist in Riverton. She reigned.
He already had his men on her. The moment he returned to the city and saw her name among the elite, he sent them. At first, it was routine. Cursory. A glance into the life of a woman he didn't yet know he would burn for.
But tonight changed everything.
Now he needed more.
Not information, but intimacy. Not knowledge, but control.
His men had brought him reports. Her favorite restaurants. The way she never used the same car two days in a row. The way she attended events alone, but never left without making someone believe she'd let them in. They told him about her staff, her routines, the guarded patterns of her movements.
But none of it felt real. It was too clean. Too perfect.
Like she knew she was being watched.
Silas clenched the crystal tumbler in his hand. Bourbon barely tasted as the name was his whole focus.
The next morning, he arrived on set, jaw tight, head full of Grace.
It was an action-romance project, one of the biggest studios in Westbridge had launched a partnership with Riverton's indie directors. Silas was their anchor star, the drawcard that funded everything else.
The studio was on the outskirts of the city. Clean, professional, surrounded by glass buildings and looming cranes. Lights cast long shadows over the gravel as crew members rushed to prepare.
"Mr. Vale, lighting check in ten," said his assistant.
He nodded, then turned to his reflection in the mirror.
The man staring back wore a navy suit and bruised eyes. Lip color adjusted. Hair sculpted to perfection.
But inside, he was a blaze.
Scene after scene, Silas delivered flawlessly. His voice dropped an octave when seducing his co-star, his gaze sharp as a dagger when facing conflict. Applause followed the takes. Directors were thrilled.
But in the silence between frames, he thought of her.
How she hadn't even looked at him.
How she had given that bastard Julian a moment she hadn't spared for anyone else.
By lunch, his men had updated him again. No new sightings. Grace was at a downtown café, sipping espresso with Eva Lorne.
He swallowed the burn in his chest.
The obsession wasn't slow. It was a sickness. A fever. And he didn't want the cure.