Sylvia arrived on the arm of her escort, her gown shimmering under the lights.
The moment Winn spotted her, his expression curdled. Rage blazed in his storm-gray eyes, veins standing out on his neck as he shot to his feet. He moved with lethal precision. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I came to celebrate with you."
"Mr. Kane, it’s quite alright." The woman beside Sylvia interjected smoothly, stepping into the space. "That’s why she brought me along."
She was stunning. Her dress was modest, hugging just enough to tease while concealing enough to command curiosity. Thin lips curved in a secretive smile, and her deep, bottomless eyes fixed on Winn.
"Who are you?" Winn’s gaze swept the unfamiliar woman.
"My name is Sharona. Sharona Priestley." She offered him a small smile but didn’t offer a hand. "And I am Sylvia’s sober companion tonight. Trust me, she won’t be having a drop of alcohol tonight."
Winn gave her another slow, sweeping gaze. "Fine," he relented through clenched teeth, his eyes flickering to Sylvia in silent warning before leading both women deeper into the thrumming heart of the celebration.
Music drifted through the air. A buffet stretched across a table, heavy with delicacies imported from every corner of the globe. Waiters in black suits moved with efficiency, topping glasses before they reached the halfway mark.
The staff of Kane Headquarters mingled with their plus-ones, laughter and chatter floating above the clink of glasses. Except, Winn noted with an irritated flick of his eyes, for one person—his secretary. Winn’s mood darkened, his thoughts already calculating the reprimand.
Among the glittering guests were not only his employees but also several of his acquaintances—men and women of influence who could shift markets with a nod—and the design team contracted to bring the House of Kane’s next empire to life: the Designer Mall. Their excitement buzzed, every handshake a transaction, every smile a negotiation. To them, tonight was networking foreplay.
Winn moved, glass in hand, every inch the commanding figure his empire demanded him to be. He stepped onto the raised platform. With a subtle clink of silver against glass, he drew the room’s attention. The music softened, conversations hushed. All eyes turned toward him.
"Hello, everyone...For the past few months, all hands have been on deck to bring the Designer Mall to life." He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the room, lingering on each person just long enough to make them feel seen. "A month from now, we break ground. This gathering is the breather we all need so we can put our best foot forward and do great things."
He raised his glass. "To House of Kane."
Everyone raised their glasses in unison. "To House of Kane," they chorused. The crowd loosened again, scattering into pockets of laughter, flirtation, and hushed negotiations disguised as casual mingling. Money and ambition had never looked so well-dressed.
Winn straightened his cuffs and made his way toward a cluster of his business associates. He joined the conversation smoothly, tossing in sharp quips and calculated nods, but his attention was fractured, his focus splintered when he saw a flash of red.
Like a predator sensing prey, his head snapped toward the source. His eyes locked onto Ivy, her entrance a gravitational event pulling his air from his lungs. The red dress clung to her hourglass body in ways that seemed illegal, sculpted fabric hugging every curve, every line that promised ruin to any man who dared touch. Her legs, impossibly long, carried her forward with the casual grace of a queen striding into her court.
Danger. That’s what her body screamed. And Winn had always been addicted to danger.
She was swallowed instantly by a group of her colleagues, their laughter wrapping around her. Winn watched as she leaned in, the curve of her mouth infuriatingly perfect. She reached for a glass of champagne, her fingers delicate around the stem, and sipped. She looked effortless.
Winn’s lungs forgot their function. His chest tightened, his throat dry despite the golden liquid in his own glass. He hated it—the loss of control, the way his pulse betrayed him.
The sharp call of his name snapped him back. He tore his gaze away, almost violently, and faced the older man in the navy tux at his side.
"Yes..." Winn forced the word out.
"I was asking if you’ve chosen a location for the Designer Mall." The man’s brow lifted, clearly wondering if the great Winn Kane had been daydreaming mid-deal.
"Er..." Winn cleared his throat, his mind catching up with his mouth. "No. I’ll begin actively looking next week. You can send me Trinity’s property portfolio. Let’s see if you have what I’m looking for."
The conversation resumed—land values, urban development, percentages tossed. Winn’s nods were automatic, his responses practiced. But every few moments, his gaze drifted again.
Back to her. Laughing in circles he’d thought beneath his attention.
Soon, Sylvia waltzed over to him with Sharona gliding at her side. Sylvia looked far too smug. She cradled a glass of water in her hand and Winn’s sharp eyes immediately dropped to it before flicking back to her face. The unspoken message hung heavy: Stay sober. Don’t make me regret letting you in.
"Hey, bro," Sylvia chirped, leaning in. "Are you alright? You seem distracted."
"I’m fine. I just have a lot going on in my head." Which was true—except none of what occupied his head had to do with corporate logistics. His brain kept circling back to the woman in red across the courtyard.
Sharona, standing with impeccable posture in her modest yet devastatingly well-tailored dress, slipped in. "It is difficult running a company, especially one of this size," she said. "But I believe you have a great team. Pulling off what you did isn’t an easy feat."
Winn’s gaze sharpened on her. This woman carried herself with calm confidence. He tilted his head slightly, assessing. "How so?"
"Well," Sharona replied, tilting her glass with a small, knowing smile, "getting Dutch men to part with their money isn’t easy."
His brow arched, curiosity ignited. How the hell did she know his investors were Dutch? That wasn’t public knowledge yet.
As though she’d anticipated the suspicion in his stare, Sharona answered the silent interrogation with a sly grin. "Sylvia has a big mouth."
"I’m right here," Sylvia cut in.
"It’s true," Winn said flatly, his lips twitching into a smirk despite himself. He turned fully toward Sharona, appraising her. "What do you do when you aren’t chaperoning my crazy sister?"
"Oh, I own Rona Couture," Sharona said smoothly. Her smile was poised. "You don’t seem like a man who bothers with fashion, though. I’m not sure you’re impressed."
Winn’s eyes flickered down her frame once more. He gave a lazy shrug, lips tugging slightly. "True."
Sharona tilted her head, as if she’d been expecting that. Then she leaned in just enough for him to catch the faintest whiff of her perfume. "How about this?" she teased. "If I can name the designer of every visible piece of clothing and accessory you have on, you have to drive me home."
Her challenge was bold, almost flirtatious, and Winn didn’t miss the way Sylvia rolled her eyes at her friend’s audacity. Winn let out a quiet laugh. "You’re on."
Late into the evening, the headquarters courtyard had shifted from its polished corporate veneer into something looser, almost college-party-esque. A circle of younger staff had abandoned small talk and were now gathered around a beer pong table, except instead of beer, they were slinging wine into red plastic cups. The music pulsed louder, ties loosened, heels kicked off, and laughter rose into the warm night air.
Ivy, bright and tipsy in her red dress, was the unexpected star of the game—though for all the wrong reasons. She was losing. Badly. Her fifth glass of wine was nearly finished, and her cheeks were flushed a glowing pink that only made her look more radiant. Her colleagues laughed with her, and she leaned on the edge of the table with an adorable little pout that had the men around her offering to "help" with her aim.
Reuben, the accounting guy with a crooked grin, shook his head while laughing. "You suck at this!" Googlᴇ search novel(ꜰ)ire.net
"I do not suck!" Ivy slurred indignantly, nearly toppling sideways before catching herself on the table. She pointed her finger at him in mock seriousness, her lipstick-smudged pout trying to hold onto dignity. "This game is rigged. Clearly. Gravity is against me. Also, wine is heavier than beer, so the physics are different."
The group erupted into another round of laughter. Ivy, though tipsy, suddenly felt a strange pang in her chest as her gaze swept over the crowd. Her temporary position was almost over. Two weeks left. Just fourteen more days of being Ivy, the secretary. Then what? Back to waiting tables and serving coffee.
She twirled her cup absently, her laughter thinning as reality sobered her heart, if not her bloodstream. For a moment, she thought about Winn. The memory of his kiss on the stairwell hit her all over again. A drunken girl’s mind had no filters, and hers whispered, What if he kissed me like that again?
(Who do you think Winn is going to go home with tonight?)