He wants power, real power, legal power—unlike some people I know.
That’s what draws me to him.
Langston Pearce.
He’s hidden from my view among a group of men chatting together. All I can see is a single eye peeking out from between two people. An eye watching me with unsettling dominance.
I wobble on my heels as my knees weaken from the power of his gaze.
Waylon may make me feel things I’ve never felt before, but Langston is the only man who can turn my knees weak, my heart still, and my world on its head.
Both men have a strong effect on me. Both men make me wish I’d never met them, because being with them means giving up some of my absolute control.
Neither man will let me have complete control. They want it for themselves.
My life would have been the same with Langston as it is with Waylon—a constant battle of wills. The difference is Waylon makes me stronger, while Langston makes me weaker. And I won’t accept weakness.
I draw my eyes away as I hold onto my champagne glass, blocking my face from Langston’s view.
The group mingling with us laughs at something Waylon says, and I laugh along with them. I could play my role in my sleep—the role of a trophy wife, clinging to Waylon’s arm. And yet, I won’t cling. I’m not here because of Waylon. I’m here on my own. I made it on my own. I don’t need any man, Waylon knows it. He can’t control me. It’s why he knows that if I touch his arm, it’s not because I need him to lean on. It’s because I’m playing the part.
Still, when I’m drawn back into the conversation, I’m no longer really here. Instead, I’m focused on the feeling of Langston’s eyes lingering over me, heating me from head to toe with just his hungry gaze.
From the outside, I ignore his stare. But Langston’s wreaking havoc on my insides—my gut is twisted, my heart is fluttering, my breath is shallow, practically panting to breathe him in.
But then I see Fitz—the other man I’m here for. The man I’ve hunted down and traced to the threatening letter I was sent—a man I plan on killing.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I say with a seductive smile before I kiss Waylon on the cheek and whisper into his ear that I’ll be back soon.
He nods solemnly before turning back to entertaining the group around us. He doesn’t ask where I’m going. He lets me be as independent as I want, even if he disagrees with me.
I spot Fitz, my target, as I strut through the ballroom. I know I have several eyes on me, but I only feel Langston’s. I don’t let myself look at him. I know where I stand with Langston. I know that although we will never be together, never even be friends, he will follow me. So I focus on my target.
A waiter walks over to the group he’s standing in, leaning in to offer more champagne. And I take my chance.
I step right into the center of the five man group. All eyes and voices fall, as they all concentrate on keeping their boners from making an appearance as they drool over my body covered in lace and black fabric. My ass and legs look great beneath the slit in the dress, but my boobs are the real show as the dress cuts down in a low V, showing off most of my breasts.
Men are so easy to manipulate when you have a body like mine.
I set my empty glass on the tray, leaning across Fitz’s face as I do. I stand almost a foot taller than him in my heels. Then I take another glass of champagne from the tray.
“Meet me on the balcony,” I whisper into his ear before I turn and walk away toward the balcony. I know that he’s following me without having to turn and look. In fact, I know that two men are following me.
The air is warm as I stand on the balcony a dozen floors up, looking out at the twinkling lights of the city. Anywhere else, a balcony like this might seem romantic. But here in New York City, the city that never sleeps, all you hear is the honk of horns and the bustle of people. You breathe in the heavy haze in the air. This sight, the energy here, makes me never want to leave.
“You found me,” I say when I hear Fitz’s heavy footsteps. He would make a terrible assassin, which is one of the reasons I was able to find him so easily. He’s used to dealing with much less skilled people. He didn’t know he was dealing with a survivor. He doesn’t know that I more than survive—I thrive. And I won’t let a nameless suit like him threaten my life. I’ve survived much worse men. This man is nothing. Soon, he’ll truly be a nothing.
“When a beautiful woman tells you to meet her, you meet her.”
I hold my champagne glass up as I turn and lay eyes on him, reading him like a book. He knows exactly who I am. He knows that I know who he is. He has a bulge in the side of his pants, where I know he keeps his weapon. He thinks I’m weak, that he can just pull the gun out, and I’ll be on m
y knees begging for my life, willing to do whatever he wants.
Not likely.
I’d rather die.
“Your first lie, Mr. Fitz Nash.” I sip the too sweet champagne.