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acquisition of Westfield Industries?”
“No comment now,” he replied smoothly, not breaking stride.
I trailed slightly behind him, clutching my clutch like a shield. My heels clicked against the carpet in rhythm with my racing heart. The emerald dress suddenly felt too revealing, too attention–grabbing for someone who was supposed to blend into the background.
We reached the grand entrance, where a woman in a black gown checked our names against her list.
“Alexander Knight and guest,” she announced, waving us through.
The interior of the Met had been transformed into a glittering wonderland. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting prismatic light across the marble floors.
Waiters glided between clusters of Manhattan’s elite, offering flutes of champagne and delicate hors
d’oeuvres.
I accepted a glass with a polite smile, holding it more as a prop than anything else. The bubbles fizzed against the crystal as I scanned the room, taking in the sea of designer gowns and tailored
tuxedos.
Alexander stood beside me, shoulders straight, his expression perfectly calibrated to convey both importance and disinterest–the perfect mask of a man who belonged here.
“Mr. Knight,” a balding man with a too–tight bowtie approached, hand extended. “Wonderful to see you supporting the foundation again this year.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Alexander replied smoothly, shaking the man’s hand. “The Harrington Foundation’s work is exceptional.”
I stood slightly behind him, champagne flute clutched between my fingers, observing the practiced dance of networking. Alexander introduced me simply as “my personal assistant, Ms. Harper,” to anyone who bothered to look my way.
“The Westfield proposal needs to be finalized by Tuesday,” Alexander murmured between greetings. “Make a note to call their legal team tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mr. Knight.” I pulled my phone from my clutch, typing the reminder while balancing my champagne.
Three men in nearly identical tuxedos approached him, all with that same confident stride that screamed old money.
“Knight! Didn’t expect to see you here,” said the tallest one, clapping Alexander on the shoulder with familiar ease.
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“Richardson,” Alexander acknowledged with a slight nod. “I’m a regular donor.”
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“Always the philanthropist,” said another, whose watch probably cost more than my yearly rent. How’s that Vegas development coming along?”
“On schedule,” Alexander replied smoothly. “Breaking ground next month.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my heels already beginning to pinch. The men continued their conversation about profit margins and investment opportunities, speaking that special dialect of the ultra–wealthy where numbers in the millions were tossed around like pocket change.
I took the opportunity to scan the room, mentally cataloging faces I recognized from business meetings and society pages. The champagne in my hand remained untouched as I maintained my professional composure.
That’s when I saw her.
11
A woman stood near the grand staircase, surveying the room with calculated precision. Her gaze swept across the crowd until it landed on Alexander. A smile spread across her face–the kind that held secrets.
She moved through the crowd with effortless grace, her midnight blue gown flowing around her like water. People instinctively stepped aside as she passed, as if recognizing a force of nature.
I watched as she approached our group, her focus entirely on Alexander. The businessmen were still discussing investment opportunities, but their voices had become background noise as I observed this woman’s determined approach.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the tallest man said, checking his watch. “I should find my wife before she bids on another charity auction item we don’t need.”
The others laughed and made similar excuses, drifting away from Alexander with handshakes and promises to connect later. It was perfect timing.
Just as the last man departed, she reached us. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Alexander in a familiar embrace.
“Alexander,” she said, her voice like velvet. “How long has it been?”
Alexander’s face transformed. The business mask slipped away, replaced by a genuine smile that reached his eyes. His arms encircled her waist with comfortable familiarity.
“Too long,” he replied, pulling back to look at her. “You look incredible.”
She laughed, the sound musical and intimate. “Always the charmer.”
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I stood frozen, champagne flute clutched in my hand, suddenly feeling like I was intruding on a private moment. The woman hadn’t even glanced my way, her attention fully absorbed by Alexander
Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.
