The gala was in full swing now. Crystal chandeliers blazed above, dripping with light that made every diamond shimmer sharply, every champagne glass glow golden. The air was perfumed with money, ambition, and the faint undercurrent of desperation-men chasing deals, women chasing names, everyone chasing something.

Jason Jae thrived in it.

He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit as he drifted through the crowd, every step purposeful. People parted when they saw him coming-some with admiration, some with envy, many with thinly veiled fear. Jason caught the whispers and let them roll over him like music. Ruthless. Brilliant. Dangerous. The labels clung to him like armor, and he wore them well.

And yet...his attention wasn't on the sea of eager faces tonight. It was on her.

Across the ballroom, near one of the exhibits set up for the evening, she stood with two other women. Jason didn't know her name yet, but her presence was a disturbance in his carefully controlled world.

She wasn't the most dazzling woman in the room, at least not in the way society usually measured it. Others had brighter jewels, louder gowns, hungrier eyes. But she carried herself differently. There was no desperation in her smile, no calculated gleam when she spoke. She seemed untouched by the chaos around her, as though the glitz and clamor couldn't quite reach her skin.

Jason found himself watching too long.

"Who are you hunting tonight?" Bobby's voice cut through, smooth but edged with amusement. Jason didn't turn. His best friend had a way of reading him too quickly.

"No one." Jason sipped his whiskey, gaze still fixed on the woman.

Bobby followed his line of sight and gave a low whistle. "Ah. So it begins. Thought you said tonight was about networking, not...whatever this is."

Jason finally looked at him. "It is."

"Sure," Bobby said, unconvinced. "Except you've been staring at her for the past ten minutes like she's your next acquisition. Word of advice, Jae-women aren't companies. You can't just corner them into submission."

Jason smirked. "Can't I?"

Bobby shook his head, half-exasperated. "That right there is why people call you reckless. One day, it's going to catch up with you."

Jason let the words hang. Bobby had said versions of this before-warnings about bridges burned, rivals crushed, families ruined in the wake of Jae Enterprises. He always said Jason was too ruthless, too blind to the trail of broken lives. Maybe he was right. But ruthlessness had built this empire. Ruthlessness kept Jason untouchable.

And yet, as his gaze slid back to the woman across the room, Jason felt something strange stir in him. Not possession. Not calculation. Something sharper.

Who was she?

He hated not knowing.

Jason made his way through the crowd, pausing here and there for handshakes, nods, and half-conversations. He had mastered the art of appearing engaged while his mind was elsewhere. Tonight, his mind was locked on unraveling the mystery of the woman who hadn't even looked his way.

He stopped one of the event organizers, a man eager to impress. "The brunette near the east display," Jason said casually, as though the question were an afterthought. "Who is she?"

The man followed his glance. "Ah, yes. That's Gigi Jasmine. Works as an art curator here in New York. She's attending as a guest of..." He hesitated, then smiled. "Of one of the donors."

Jason repeated the name silently. Gigi Jasmine. It sparked nothing in his memory, but the cadence was pleasing. Light on the tongue, like a secret waiting to be spoken aloud.

He thanked the man and moved on, rolling the name in his head. Gigi Jasmine.

When his eyes found her again, she was laughing softly at something her blonde friend had said. The sound didn't carry, but Jason could imagine it, low, genuine, uncalculated. It unsettled him more than it should.

Bobby appeared at his side again. "So now you have a name. What next? Don't tell me you're actually plotting this out."

Jason didn't answer. His drink was finished, his decision made.

He crossed the room.

Every instinct told him this was ridiculous. He didn't chase. He never chased. Women chased him, opportunities bent toward him, and power fell into his hands. And yet here he was, deliberately angling his steps to intercept a woman who hadn't even noticed him.

As he drew closer, Jason studied her in detail. Her gown was simple but elegant, a deep emerald green that caught the light in muted glimmers. Her hair was dark, falling in waves that framed a face more striking the longer he looked-cheekbones sharp, eyes alive but shadowed with something he couldn't name. She carried herself with the grace of someone who knew loss but refused to bow to it.

He was almost at her side when the fake one-Sultana, he recalled from introductions vaguely, spotted him. Her eyes widened, greedy delight flashing across her face.

"Jason Jae," she said, too loudly, tugging on Gigi's arm. "I was just saying we might see you tonight."

Gigi turned.

Her gaze met his, steady and unflinching. Not dazzled. Not awed. Just...curious, maybe faintly wary, as though she were assessing him the way she might assess a piece of art.

Jason felt the corner of his mouth lift. Interesting.

"Jason Jae," he said smoothly, offering a hand.

"Gigi Jasmine." Her voice was calm, measured. She shook his hand briefly, then released it as though contact with him were nothing worth lingering over.

That alone was enough to throw him off balance. Most people clung, eager for more.

"So," Jason said, tilting his head, "do you always stand out in a room full of people trying too hard?"

Her lips curved, not quite into a smile. "Do you always open with rehearsed lines?"

Jason blinked, then laughed. The audacity of it-quiet, sharp, delivered without hesitation. He couldn't remember the last time someone had spoken to him like that.

Bobby, hovering a few steps away, groaned audibly. "Here we go."

Jason ignored him. "Not rehearsed," he said. "Just an observation."

"Then you need to adjust your observations." She took a sip of champagne, eyes not leaving his. "Because I don't stand out. I'm just here."

Jason studied her. Most people fought for the spotlight. She seemed perfectly content not to chase it, and yet she held his focus more tightly than anyone else in the room.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, charged but not uncomfortable. Jason was used to filling silences, to steering conversations. With her, he didn't feel the need.

Finally, she inclined her head politely. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Jae."

She turned back toward her friend, dismissing him without dismissal.

Jason stood there, momentarily still. No one turned away from him. Not without trying to leave something behind.

He should have walked away, laughed it off, and buried the intrigue under business and whiskey. But as he stepped back, a slow smile tugged at his lips.

She thought she could fade into the background. She thought she could dismiss him.

Jason Jae didn't allow dismissals.

"Gigi Jasmine," he murmured to himself as he walked back to Bobby. "You're not disappearing tonight. Not from me."

Bobby raised a brow. "Dangerous words, my friend. You don't even know who she is."

Jason's gaze lingered on her across the room. "Not yet."

But he would.

And something deep in his chest told him that once he knew, he wouldn't stop.

The moment his hand slipped from hers, Gigi felt the weight of it linger.

Jason Jae.

His name rolled in her mind like a stone she didn't want to pick up but couldn't stop feeling underfoot. Everything about him had radiated wealth, power, and the kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance. She'd seen men like him before-too many of them. They didn't build; they consumed. They didn't nurture; they destroyed.

And yet...why did she remember the sharp curve of his smile, or the way his gaze seemed to look through her and not past her?

"Gigi." Sultana Bricks' voice dragged her out of her thoughts. "Can you believe Jason Jae just came over here to talk to us?"

Not us, Gigi thought dryly. To me. But Sultana's tone was already dripping with possessive delight, like a child pressing her face against a toy shop window, imagining everything inside belonged to her.

"He's...a man," Gigi said simply, lifting her champagne flute again. The bubbles fizzed against her lips, bitterer than she remembered.

"A man?" Sultana gawked, her smile twitching. "He's the Jason Jae. Billionaire. CEO of Jae Corporation. Practically royalty in this city." She leaned in, eyes darting, voice lowering like she was imparting sacred knowledge. "Women throw themselves at him. Do you know how rare it is for him to notice anyone? And he noticed you."

Gigi set her glass down on the table beside her, irritation coiling tight in her chest. "Noticed is one word. Cornered is another. I'm not interested, Sultana."

Sultana's laugh was brittle. "Oh, come on. Don't act like you didn't feel it. That man doesn't even have to try. He walks into a room, and every woman in it thinks about what it would be like to be on his arm. Admit it-he rattled you."

Her fake sweetness pressed against Gigi's ears like nails on glass. She didn't answer, choosing instead to look across the ballroom.

Jason was still there, standing with his friend-the tall one with easy charm, who'd been watching the entire exchange with a kind of resigned amusement. Jason wasn't mingling now, wasn't networking, wasn't doing what men like him usually did at these events. He was watching her.

Gigi's stomach tightened.

She turned her back quickly, forcing her attention on Isabella Hart, who had been quiet through the exchange. Isabella's golden hair gleamed under the chandeliers, her smile soft as always, but her eyes were sharp-she missed nothing.

"Well?" Isabella asked, tilting her head. "What did you think?"

Gigi exhaled slowly. "He's exactly what he looks like. The kind of man I swore I'd never waste a second of my life on."

"And what does he look like?" Isabella pressed, clearly enjoying the game.

"A man who believes the world is his to take." Gigi's voice was steady, even as her insides stirred. "And I don't care how much money he has, or how many women would kill for his attention. Men like Jason Jae destroy everything they touch."

There was a brief silence. Isabella reached over and squeezed her hand under the table, grounding her. "Then it's a good thing you're smart enough not to let him touch you."

Gigi smiled faintly, grateful. Isabella always had a way of cutting through her walls without forcing them down.

But Sultana rolled her eyes, though her lips curved like she was still the supportive friend. "You're being dramatic, Gigi. He's successful, not evil. And besides"-her gaze flicked toward Jason like a moth to flame-"if he looked at me like that, I wouldn't be pretending I didn't care."

Gigi felt her chest tighten again, not from jealousy, but from something harder to name. Sultana's hunger was obvious, though she dressed it up as harmless curiosity. And Jason...

She forced herself to breathe. No. She wouldn't start that line of thought.

Not tonight. Not ever.

The gala stretched on, a blur of introductions and shallow laughter. Gigi smiled when she had to, conversed when it was polite, but her mind kept snagging on that single encounter. She reminded herself, over and over, that Jason Jae was nothing more than a man she had happened to meet tonight.

But she felt him still, across the room. His presence pressed against her like a shadow she hadn't invited but couldn't ignore.

When the orchestra shifted into its last song of the evening, Gigi excused herself from her group, desperate for a breath of air. She moved toward the terrace, where cool night air drifted through open doors. The city glittered below, endless lights reflected in the dark sweep of the Hudson.

She leaned against the railing, closing her eyes for a moment. He doesn't matter. He can't matter.

"Running away already?"

Her eyes flew open.

Jason was standing at the edge of the terrace, not close, but not far enough for comfort. The moonlight caught the edges of his profile, making him look sharper, almost unreal.

"I wasn't aware I owed anyone my attendance," Gigi said, straightening. Her tone was calm, but her pulse betrayed her.

He smiled faintly. "You don't. I just expected you'd stay long enough to enjoy being the most interesting woman in the room."

Gigi almost laughed. Almost. "Is that what you say to every woman who doesn't swoon at your introduction?"

Jason's eyes gleamed, amusement flickering. "No. Most don't give me a reason to."

Her breath caught, and she hated that it did. She turned back toward the city, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

"Well," she said, her voice cool, "then I suppose this conversation is over."

She walked past him before he could answer, heels clicking against the marble floor, spine straight. She didn't look back.

But she felt his eyes on her until she disappeared into the crowd again.

Later that night, as she slipped into the backseat of the car Isabella had arranged for them, Gigi pressed her head against the window.

Isabella dozed lightly beside her, the soft hum of the city carrying them home. Sultana sat across, scrolling through her phone, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Gigi closed her eyes, Jason Jae's face flickering behind her eyelids. The way he looked at her-as if she wasn't just another socialite, as if he'd found something rare.

She clenched her hands into fists.

"No," she whispered to herself, so softly no one could hear.

She wouldn't be like the rest. She wouldn't let a man like that get close.

Not when she knew, better than anyone, how much power like his could destroy.

But as the city lights blurred past, a quiet fear unfurled in her chest: that no matter how hard she tried, Jason Jae wasn't going to disappear.

And worse-some part of her wasn't sure she wanted him to.

The city didn't sleep, but tonight neither did I.

From the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, Manhattan sprawled out like a glittering circuit board, veins of light pulsing through its streets. Cars weaved like fireflies. Skyscrapers towered against the night, monuments to ambition and greed. They were supposed to make me feel powerful, this view, this kingdom I had built with my own hands.

Instead, it felt empty.

I stalked the living room barefoot, tumbler of scotch in hand, shirt unbuttoned halfway. The air smelled faintly of leather and whiskey. A million-dollar apartment and not a single trace of warmth. I could have been in a glass cage suspended above the world.

And in that cage, one thought looped endlessly.

Her.

Gigi Jasmine.

She had walked past me at the gala like I was just another man in a suit. She had looked me in the eye and dismissed me with nothing but a polite smile. No awe, no hunger, no desperation-the usual cocktail of expressions I got from women who knew my name.

I should have forgotten her by now. Instead, every time I closed my eyes, I saw her again. That defiance. That quiet strength. That refusal to bend.

I took another swallow of scotch, the burn doing nothing to numb the irritation-or the hunger-curling through me.

"Christ, Jason, will you sit the hell down?"

Bobby's voice came from the couch, where he sprawled with his own glass. My best friend had been around long enough to recognize my moods, though I doubted even he had seen this one before.

I shot him a look, but his grin was lazy, unfazed.

"You're pacing holes into your floor," he said, swirling the amber liquid. "Not even a hostile takeover gets you this wound up. So what is it? Or should I say... who?"

I ignored him, turning back to the window.

"Don't play dumb with me, Jae," he pressed. "You've been off since the gala. I've known you long enough to spot it. You've got that look-the one you get before you decide to bulldoze someone."

I smirked faintly. "You make me sound like a psychopath."

"Am I wrong?"

I didn't answer.

Bobby leaned forward, his tone shifting. "Who is she?"

I could've lied. Pretended it was business. But the truth was written all over me already.

"Her name's Gigi Jasmine," I said finally. The sound of it was dangerous, addictive.

Bobby blinked. Then, slowly, a disbelieving chuckle. "No. You're not serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Jason..." He dragged a hand down his face. "Don't do this. I know that look. You're about to chase something you shouldn't."

I downed the rest of my drink and set the glass on the bar. "Since when do I ask permission?"

"This isn't about permission. It's about danger. You've got everything, Jae-money, power, control. Why risk it on a woman who doesn't even want you?"

That word doesn't want me-grated. It wasn't rejection. Not exactly. She hadn't even bothered to see me as a man worth rejecting. She had dismissed me without a thought.

And that, more than anything, was what had hooked me.

"You're overthinking it," I said coolly. "I'm curious, that's all."

Bobby's laugh was humorless. "You're obsessed. And obsessions destroy empires."

"Or build them," I countered.

Our eyes locked across the room. He shook his head, but I had already turned away. Advice was wasted on me. It always had been.

By the next afternoon, curiosity became action.

I sat behind my desk at Jae Enterprises, the skyline rising behind me, a silent fortress of glass and steel. My assistant placed a slim folder in front of me, her expression tight. I didn't miss the flicker of confusion in her eyes. She'd never been asked to run a background check on a woman before. Competitors, yes. CEOs, politicians, threats. But not a woman who had smiled once and walked away.

I opened the folder.

Her face looked up at me from a grainy photograph, stolen from some magazine feature about local curators. The camera hadn't done her justice. In person, she had been sharper, brighter. But even here, the quiet poise in her expression burned through.

"Gigi Jasmine," I murmured under my breath.

Twenty-six. Art curator at Bellamy Gallery. Middle-class background. No scandals. No strings. Just... clean. Untouched.

But there was something else. A note scribbled in the margins.

Bellamy Gallery nearly collapsed five years ago. Rescued by anonymous private funding.

I stared at that line for a long time. Anonymous funding. Money had saved her career, her sanctuary. Whose money? Why?

The thought unsettled me in a way I couldn't explain.

I flipped through more photos. She is at the exhibition. Her paintings. She speaks to artists. Always so composed, so steady, as if her life was insulated from the chaos I thrived on.

And yet, I wanted to walk right into that calm and shatter it.

A slow smile spread across my face.

Some men sent flowers. I sent opportunities.

She worked in a gallery? Then I would own it. Fund it. Breathe new life into it until every wall she walks past carries my name. Until she couldn't step into her sanctuary without feeling me there.

She would resist. Of course she would. But the walls always cracked.

That night, I didn't send an assistant or a driver. Some things couldn't be delegated.

I slipped into my car and drove myself downtown, the city humming like a living beast around me. Neon signs bled color onto the sidewalks. Music thumped from rooftop bars. But I wasn't here for any of it.

The Bellamy Gallery stood quietly on a corner of SoHo. Glass walls gleamed under the streetlamps, revealing glimpses of paintings inside. Compared to the skyscrapers I ruled over, it looked fragile. A jewel box.

I parked across the street, engine idling, cigarette between my fingers. Smoke curled out the window as I watched.

And then I saw her.

Through the glass, Gigi was inside, cardigan draped over her shoulders, hair pulled into a loose knot. She moved carefully, rearranging frames, her hands brushing each canvas with a reverence that made my chest tighten. She was alone in her world, pouring herself into it.

For a moment, I just watched. I didn't even breathe. She wasn't performing. She wasn't aware of eyes on her. She was simply herself-focused, alive, and real.

Something twisted in me, dark and hungry.

She didn't know it yet, but I'd already chosen her.

Movement in the corner of my vision snapped me out of it.

Another car. Sleek. Black. Parked half in shadow at the curb. I hadn't noticed it when I pulled up, but now it was unmistakable. Its tinted windows reflected the city lights, its presence deliberate.

The driver's door opened.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Composed. His suit wasn't loud or flashy like the nouveau riche. It was understated, the kind of elegance that came with old money and confidence. He didn't rush. Didn't fidget. Just stood there, in the pool of lamplight, watching the same woman I was watching.

He didn't knock. Didn't call out. He simply looked at her through the glass as though she already belonged to him.

My grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Predators recognize predators.

And this man wasn't ordinary. His presence radiated power, the quiet kind, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. He was dangerous. Not because of what he did, but because of what he didn't have to do.

Inside, Gigi bent over a canvas, utterly unaware that two men were circling her world from the shadows.

Heat flared in my chest. Possession. Rage. Determination.

She didn't even know I had chosen her.

And already, someone else was watching.

No.

This wouldn't stand.

I leaned back in my seat, eyes locked on the stranger, and a dark smile curved my lips.

If he thought she was his, he was about to learn what happened to men who wanted what I claimed.