Friday evening settled over the city like a veil of ash-gray mist, dimming the skyline with a melancholy hush. Twilight draped itself in slow layers, as if the world were holding its breath.
A gilded invitation card lay quietly atop the vanity table. The paper was thick, textured, and exuded the faintly intoxicating scent of high-grade ink—an indulgent perfume of luxury.
"Universe Fine Jewelry — 5th Anniversary Gala."
Universe was the Watson Group's venture into the designer jewelry market—founded five years ago during their diversification phase. A venture that had bled money from the start. Recently, it had been handed over to James by their father, who had demanded he turn the business profitable within a year, and double its earnings within three. It was a tall order, a poisoned chalice wrapped in a silk ribbon.
Damon, by contrast, had been cycling through rotations in the more stable hotel division—Watson Group's crown jewel. Upon graduation, he was groomed there, recently stepping into management. His task, set by the same father, was to draft a strategic plan to trigger scaled growth in revenue. On paper, it was a test of ability to determine the next heir.
In reality, everyone knew the truth—their father never intended to let James go anywhere near the hotel empire. Jewelry was a side project, a low-stakes sandbox. But Damon didn't see it that way. He felt the threat viscerally.
James, the illegitimate son, always managed to fix what was broken, always pulled off the impossible. And their father—he admired that. Too much.
Damon lived with a constant edge in his gut, convinced James was a storm on the horizon—a storm that could wipe him out.
And now, this gala—meant to court partnerships and forge elite connections—was James's moment to shine.
Damon wouldn't let that happen without a fight.
Her phone buzzed. A message blinking across the screen. *Damon*, followed by a long Swiss international code.
Jenny tapped the speaker on, her voice relaxed, languid, like silk sliding over the skin.
"Miss me already?"
Across continents, Damon's voice filtered through with a thread of fatigue, though his command of tone—always taut, always controlling—never wavered.
"It's empty here without you," she replied softly, fingers idly tracing the looping script on the invitation card.
"Go to the Universe gala tonight. For me."
It wasn't a request.
"That's James's domain. Wouldn't it be inappropriate?"
"What's inappropriate about it?" Damon's voice grew sharp, impatient. "You're the lady of the Watson house."
He didn't bother masking the possessiveness in his tone. It was raw, unquestioning.
"Talk to the wives. Find out what kind of jewelry they're wearing, what styles are trending. James wouldn't know a damn thing about what women want."
He let out a soft, bitter laugh—half jealousy, half disdain.
Jenny's lips were curved, cool and unreadable.
*He was always like this.* Trashing James's "worthless" projects, while obsessing over their potential to upstage him.
"Alright," she said sweetly. "I'll dress up and look my absolute best."
"Good girl."
The call ended without ceremony.
Jenny lifted the invitation, her eyes scanning the words, the gold, the logo—until a thought, sharp and gleaming, took root in her mind.
She dialed another number.
It rang longer than expected. Paper rustled in the background before a calm voice answered.
"James."
"Jenny."
His voice was low and smooth—like still water over deep currents. Impossible to read.
"Do you have a date for tonight's gala?"
The words left her lips more directly than she had intended.
There was a pause at the other end.
"Damon's away. I'd feel awkward going alone," she added, crafting the perfect excuse.
"And it is your night, after all. Shouldn't the lady of the Watson house make her entrance with the man in charge? That would be... appropriate, don't you think?"
There was a note of playful provocation in her voice—just enough to stir the air.
A beat passed.
"7 p.m. The driver will be waiting."
He said it simply. Decidedly.
7 p.m.
The stretch of Lincoln glided silently through the evening city, where streetlamps bled gold across the glassy asphalt. Inside the car, the light was low, intimate—casting their reflections like whispers against the tinted windows.
The partition slowly rose, sealing them into a quiet, cloistered world of leather and silence.
The air carried James's familiar scent—**a clean, dry cedarwood note**—intertwined with the warmth of the leather seats. Jenny sat beside him in a deep emerald silk gown that shimmered with her every movement. The hem brushed lightly against his trousers with the sway of the car, producing the faintest rustle—like breath over the skin.
James leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, his expression unreadable. One hand rested lightly on his right knee.
Jenny's gaze wandered.
She had heard about that leg.
The injury, years ago. A fall from the second floor. The bone had broken clean. And since then, damp weather—or nights like this one, cool and humid— has always brought back the ache.
The quiet in the car was complete, broken only by the rhythm of two steady, separate breaths.
Jenny shifted closer.
The silk of her dress whispered across the carpeted floor.
James's eyes opened, the shadows in them unreadable.
"Is it hurting?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
"I've learned a few massage techniques," she offered. "Might help with the pain."
She didn't wait for permission.
Leaning in, her fingers brushed gently over the fabric of his trousers, resting lightly on his knee.
His muscles tensed beneath her touch.
Her hand followed slowly, pressing into the curve of muscle just above the joint. Her motions were precise, focused. Professional, even. But the space between them was anything but clinical.
Her palm moved with rhythmic pressure, tracing the outline of old pain—and something new.
James remained still. But his breath had changed.
Jenny's gaze stayed downcast, lashes low, her focus unwavering—so unlike her usual polished reserve.
Outside, neon lights flew by in streaks, painting both their faces with flickering pulses of gold and blue.
Her fingers traced a slow circle along the curve of his knee.
The motion was deliberate, languid.
Suggestive.
Not quite a touch of care. Not quite a seduction.
More... a test.
A line, delicately toed, but never spoken aloud.
James could feel it—the coiling heat, the tension stretching taut between the quiet press of her fingers and the cold leather seat beneath him. His heartbeat had grown louder in his chest. He was aware of every inch of her—her perfume, the warmth of her breath, the damp sheen of her lips.
"Better?" she asked, finally meeting his eyes.
Her tone was sweet. Innocent.
But her lips were parted. Her touch lingered a second too long.
James didn't answer.
He just looked at her—long, steady, and unfathomable.
The car slowed to a stop.
Outside, the entrance of the hotel shimmered under a canopy of crystal lights. The sudden glare shattered the darkness in the car like a splash of ice water.
Jenny withdrew her hand smoothly, as if nothing had happened.
The night was just beginning.