The ballroom shimmered with wealth. Crystals dangled from the chandeliers like frozen rain, casting delicate prisms of light across champagne flutes and designer gowns. Waiters in black moved like shadows, offering oysters and canapés to New York's elite.
And you stood in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand, perfectly composed—at least on the outside.
Your job was to make other people's evenings seamless. No hiccups. No distractions. Not even when the host was Damien Cross, the most powerful man in the room, possibly the entire city.
He hadn't arrived yet. And you weren't sure if you were relieved or disappointed.
"He'll be here soon," whispered Tessa, your assistant, nudging you with a grin. "Bet he walks in late on purpose. Makes everyone sweat."
You gave a tight smile, scanning the floral arrangements one more time to avoid reacting. You didn't want to admit you'd noticed Damien Cross at every gala, every fundraiser, every charity auction over the past year. And not just because he signed your paychecks.
There was something dangerous about him. His eyes, silver-gray and ice-cold. The way he moved through rooms like he owned the oxygen.
A ripple of tension passed through the crowd, like a shift in temperature.
He had arrived.
You turned, and there he was—tall, broad-shouldered, black suit tailored so sharply it looked like it could cut glass. His tie was loose, like he didn't care about the rules of the event he funded. His presence was magnetic, drawing every gaze in the room.
Including yours.
His eyes met yours instantly. Not accidentally. Not casually. He looked at you like he'd been searching the room for your face alone.
Your throat dried.
You quickly looked away and buried yourself in a conversation with the venue manager, pretending to inspect the lighting. But you felt it—him—as he crossed the ballroom. Even without touching you, Damien Cross had a way of brushing against the edges of your sanity.
The evening moved on. Speeches were made. A silent auction began. Guests mingled, laughed, toasted.
And then it ended.
You sighed as the final guest slipped away into the waiting night. Your heels ached. Your dress, chosen to blend in but still impress, suddenly felt too tight. You needed water. Maybe wine. Definitely a bath.
You reached for your clutch and paused.
There, nestled between your phone and keys, was a folded note on creamy, expensive paper.
You looked around. The ballroom was empty, except for a few staff members packing up.
Your fingers trembled as you opened it.
> "70th floor. Midnight. Come as you are.
– D.C."
You stared at the paper like it might vanish.
Damien Cross's signature penthouse was on the 70th floor. That note could only mean one thing.
No consequences. No expectations.
Just one night. If you went.
The elevator keycard still hung from your lanyard. The event planner badge meant you had access. It would be so easy to press the button, glide up into his world, and see what happened behind those mirrored windows.
Your mind screamed danger.
Your body whispered go.
You glanced at the clock. 11:47.
Thirteen minutes.
You didn't change. You didn't fix your makeup. You didn't tell anyone.
At midnight, you stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss.
As the numbers climbed, so did your heart rate.
When the doors opened, Damien Cross was already waiting—alone, composed, a glass of amber whiskey in hand.
"You came," he said, his voice low and quiet. Not surprised. Not cocky.
Like he knew you would.
"I almost didn't."
He walked toward you, slow and measured, like a man who had never been told no.
"But you did," he said. "And that changes everything."