Alex - POV
I was mid-conversation with a client, nodding, smiling, playing the part, calm, collected, everything under control. The kind of night that should have been smooth, predictable. The party around us hummed: low music, polite chatter, the clink of glasses. Everything expensive, everything refined.
And then I saw her.
At first, I thought I imagined it. A woman, heels too high for her own safety, hands gripping her phone like it was a lifeline, darting through the crowd like she was being hunted. She froze, then ducked behind someone's tray of champagne. Then vanished behind a low divider. She wasn't just moving; she was hiding.
Curiosity hooked me instantly. Adults didn't crouch and hide at events like this unless they were running from something or someone.
"One more percentage point and we have an agreement," the client across from me said, swirling his drink, confident he had my full attention.
He didn't.
Because just beyond his shoulder, between the soft gold lighting and the drifting servers, a woman in heels crouched like she was evading arrest.
My gaze snagged.
She wore emerald green. Hair loose, tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders. Elegant dress, ompletely ruined by the fact that she was literally ducking behind a server's tray with the panic of someone who had just seen a ghost.
Interesting.
I answered the client automatically, years of discipline carrying my voice while my eyes tracked her movements. She shifted again, lower this time, disappearing beneath a tablecloth. I almost smiled.
"Mr. Hale?"
"Yes," I said smoothly, lifting my glass. "Continue."
But I was already distracted.
She peeked out from under the table. Wide eyes. Shallow breath. Every movement sharp, controlled by fear and embarrassment. She wasn't hiding for fun; she was hiding for survival.
I tried to keep my posture casual, hand around my glass, client talking. But my eyes didn't leave her. She peeked over her shoulder again, scanning the room. That's when I noticed him. A man, tall, confident, arm looped around a woman in white, laughing, unaware or perhaps aware of her frantic glances. Newlyweds, if the chemistry or the dominance was any indicator.
Ah. That explained the terror.
The client cleared his throat. "Is something wrong?"
"No," I said smoothly. "Nothing at all."
Her decision came suddenly. She rose, determination overriding caution. Her body tensed. Panic was written all over her. She turned and hurried through the crowd toward the nearest exit.
I didn't think.
I stepped forward.
And then—bam.
Her body collided with mine.
The weight in my hand went wrong. The glass tilted, almost slipped and then wine sloshed out, hot and sticky, flooding over my fingers, soaking my sleeve, spreading across my chest.
For half a second, everything stalled.
Music dipped. Someone nearby sucked in a breath. The spill felt louder than it was.
She froze against me. Completely still.
Then she panicked, words tumbling out too fast, hands flying to my shirt without thinking. She tried to wipe the wine away, dabbing, brushing, apologizing again and again. Her fingers were shaking.
And then she heard a voice behind her.
Close. Dangerous. Familiar.
Her hands stopped mid-motion.
Her body locked. Every muscle froze. Her face drained of color, eyes flicking past my shoulder, not with guilt. With shame and with fear.
That was all the information I needed.
I didn't question. I didn't hesitate.
I pulled her in. One arm slid firmly around her waist, not tight enough to trap her, just enough to claim space. I turned slightly, instinctive, angling my body so hers disappeared against me. Her face pressed into my chest, breath warm through the fabric of my shirt, fingers curling into my jacket like she'd decided instinctively that I was safer than whatever stood behind her.
She was shaking.
I felt it in the way her body leaned into mine, in the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat against my palm. I tightened my hold, not to restrain her, but to keep her still. To keep her hidden.
The man approached. Confidence radiating, arrogance in every step.
"Giana?"
She didn't respond.
I did.
"Is there a problem?" My tone was calm, polite, but I could tell the weight behind it made him pause.
His eyes flicked over me, then past me. Recognition sparked, uncertain but persistent. Hair, shape, posture, mannerisms. He stalled, searching for the right response, and settled on caution.
"I was just wondering if I knew your… companion."
My arm tightened at her waist. Not enough to hurt but enough to remind him she wasn't reachable.
I didn't look down at her. Didn't check her reaction. Didn't soften it.
"She's my wife."
The words landed like steel. Sharp. Unmistakable. Non-negotiable.
The silence that followed was heavy. Final.
Something in his expression shifted.
Embarrassment edged with doubt, pride bruised. He muttered an apology that came too late, already retreating, already losing ground. He backed away, glancing over his shoulder once.
Then again.
Still unsure whether he'd imagined her.
I didn't move until he was gone. Didn't loosen my hold. I wanted the message to linger.
She wasn't available.
She wasn't alone.
And she wasn't his anymore.
I didn't loosen my hold until his footsteps faded completely into the crowd.
She was silent. Shaken. Relief, confusion, and a strange, unwanted sense of safety battling in her gaze.
"Do you want to get out of here?" I murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear.
Her head lifted slowly. Our eyes met—and for the first time, really met. Something about her, the sharp curve of her jaw, the wild fear mingled with undeniable strength in her eyes hit me differently. Almost physically. I wanted to step back, to let her be… but something darker, sharper, pulled me forward. I needed to protect her. I needed her close. And somewhere deep inside, the thought of having her completely, utterly, without permission made my pulse quicken.
Her gaze flicked to mine, searching, tentative. A flicker of trust, maybe even instinct, passed between us. She nodded. Slowly. Subtly. But it was enough.
I guided her through the crowd, one firm hand at her waist, the other holding hers loosely but intentionally. Step by step, careful, protective, keeping her shielded from view. Each movement measured, each brush of our bodies gave me feelings I couldn't describe.
We paused at the exit. I didn't move, didn't shift, giving her the space to breathe, to take in that she was still being held, safe. Her forehead brushed against my chest, warm and real. My hand remained firm at her waist, grounding.
Then she saw me. Really saw me. Her pupils widened.
I held her gaze. Let it stretch. The noise of the hall fell away.
I didn't move. She didn't speak. But the air between us was charged, heavy with tension, and something neither of us could name yet.
Her gaze flicked to mine, sharp and unguarded, and in that instant, I knew she had run straight into me. And I wasn't letting her go.
I tightened my grip just slightly. She gasped.
She was running from chaos, only to be caught by mine. And in that moment, I knew I wanted her, needed her, closer than I should. But am I even allowed to? How far could I go to keep her close before I destroyed her too?