Eleonore slid into the passenger seat of Kierra's red sports car.

She smoothed down the champagne velvet skirt over her knees.

Kierra's phone buzzed incessantly in the cup holder. She kept glancing at the screen, her jaw tight, but she aggressively swiped the notifications away before slamming her foot on the gas pedal.

The engine roared.

The car shot out of the underground garage and merged into the heavy, neon‑lit traffic of Manhattan.

Twenty minutes later, the tires screeched slightly as Kierra pulled up to the fountain outside the Plaza Hotel.

A valet in a crisp uniform rushed over and pulled the passenger door open.

Eleonore grabbed the hem of her dress and stepped out onto the pavement.

Instantly, a wall of flashing white lights exploded around her.

The paparazzi lined the red carpet. The flashes felt like physical slaps against her retinas.

Eleonore immediately raised her hand to shield her eyes. Her stomach twisted with anxiety.

Kierra hooked her arm through Eleonore's. Kierra smiled brightly, waving at the cameras like she owned the city.

They walked quickly through the revolving glass doors and stepped into the massive banquet hall.

The air inside was thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of hundreds of conversations.

A giant crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the crowd.

Before making her way toward Bradley, Eleonore excused herself for a moment and slipped through a side door into the hotel’s rear garden. The night air was cool, and she walked a few paces along the stone path, just to steady her nerves. Then she turned back and re‑entered the hall.

She scanned the room. Her eyes darted past the politicians and actors.

She found him standing near the center of the room.

Bradley Michael. His silver hair caught the light. He stood tall and elegant, surrounded by a tight circle of industry elites.

Standing directly in front of him was Cherie Washington.

Cherie was wearing a skin‑tight red dress. She was holding out a thick, leather‑bound design portfolio with both hands.

Eleonore slowed her pace. She stopped at the edge of the crowd, keeping her distance.

"Please, Mr. Michael," Cherie said. Her voice was high and desperate. "I will drop everything. I just want to learn from you."

The people around them stopped talking. Everyone turned to watch the scene.

Bradley did not reach for the portfolio. He kept his hands clasped behind his back.

His face was a mask of polite indifference.

"My energy is limited, Ms. Washington," Bradley said. His voice was flat. "I am not taking any new apprentices."

Cherie's smile froze. Her hands stayed suspended in the air, holding the heavy book.

Her knuckles turned white.

"But I just won the National Emerging Designer Award," Cherie pushed, her voice cracking slightly.

Bradley nodded once. "Congratulations. But my answer is no."

He looked bored. He shifted his weight, clearly wanting to leave the conversation.

Eleonore saw the tension in his jaw. She decided to step in.

She pushed gently past a man in a tuxedo and walked straight toward Bradley.

The moment Bradley saw her standing at the periphery, the coldness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a microscopic softening only she could detect. He didn't raise his voice or make a grand spectacle. Instead, he took a subtle step backward, distancing himself from the sycophants, and closed the gap between them. He placed a discreet, warm hand on Eleonore's shoulder, shielding the movement with his body.

"There you are," Bradley murmured so only she could hear. "Have you been slacking off on your sketches again?"

Eleonore smiled softly. She looked down at the floor.

"I was just cutting a rough stone in the studio," Eleonore said quietly.

Bradley sighed. He squeezed her shoulder with pure affection.

"You have all the talent in the world, and zero ambition," Bradley teased.

A few feet away, Cherie pulled her portfolio back to her chest.

Cherie's face turned a dark, ugly shade of red.

She stared at the side of Eleonore's face. Her eyes were burning with pure hatred.

Kierra walked up behind Eleonore, holding two glasses of champagne.

Kierra stopped. She looked at Cherie, feeling the heavy, toxic energy radiating off the woman in the red dress.

Cherie took a sudden, aggressive step forward.

She blocked the path just as Eleonore and Bradley were about to walk away.

Cherie shoved the heavy leather portfolio directly into Eleonore's chest.

"Since the Master thinks so highly of you," Cherie said, her voice dripping with venom, "why don't you give me some advice?"

The crowd around them went dead silent. People leaned in, waiting to see the unknown girl humiliate herself.

Kierra opened her mouth to yell at Cherie, but Eleonore reached out and grabbed Kierra's forearm.

Eleonore's fingers dug into Kierra's skin, a silent command to stop.

Eleonore took the portfolio. The leather was warm from Cherie's sweaty hands.

She flipped open the heavy cover to the first page. It was a sketch of a massive diamond necklace.

Eleonore stared at the drawing for exactly two seconds.

When she looked up, her eyes were completely different. The shyness was gone. They were cold and sharp.

"The load‑bearing structure..." Eleonore started, but immediately caught herself. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she realized where she was. She couldn't expose her expertise here. Not yet. She lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper, leaning toward Kierra. "The prongs are too thin for a stone this heavy. If cast, the main diamond will fall out within a week."

She meant for it to be private, but Cherie, standing aggressively close, caught the whisper. Cherie's eyes widened in outrage.

"What did you just say?" Cherie snapped, her voice piercing the quiet room. "Did you just criticize my filigree wiring?"

The crowd held its breath now, sensing a real confrontation brewing. A few guests exchanged amused glances, eager for blood.

Eleonore kept her face perfectly blank. She carefully closed the book, making sure not to make a sound. She handed it back to Cherie with a polite, deferential nod.

"I said your work is incredibly intricate, Ms. Washington," Eleonore lied smoothly, her voice calm and entirely devoid of the sharp edge from a moment ago. "The metal alloy choices are certainly... unique. You must be very proud of your award."

She refused to take the bait. She refused to be the spectacle.

The older, experienced jewelers in the crowd lost interest, turning back to their champagne, dismissing Eleonore as just another clueless amateur intimidated by a professional.

Cherie snatched the book back. Her chest heaved up and down.

She spun around on her heels and pushed her way through the crowd, practically running toward the exit.

Kierra let out a loud, piercing whistle. Bradley smiled proudly.

Eleonore reached into her small velvet clutch to grab a tissue. Her palms were sweating.

She dug her fingers into the bottom of the bag.

She stopped. Her stomach dropped.

Her custom sketching pen was gone.

Panic flared in her chest. She needed that pen. She patted the sides of the small bag frantically.

"I lost my pen," Eleonore whispered to Bradley and Kierra. "I must have dropped it outside."

In her mind, she flashed back to the few minutes she had spent in the rear garden before rejoining the crowd. The pen must have slipped out then.

She didn't wait for them to answer. She turned and pushed her way out of the dense crowd.

She walked quickly toward the back of the hall and pushed open the heavy glass doors leading to the outdoor garden.

The cold night air hit her bare shoulders like a physical blow. She shivered.

The garden was pitch black, lit only by a few dim yellow lights near the ground.

She kept her head down, staring at the stone pathway, searching for the silver clip of her pen.

She walked quickly, turning the corner around a massive rose bush.

She didn't look up.

She slammed face‑first into a solid wall of muscle.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. She stumbled backward, her heels slipping on the smooth stone.

Before she could fall, a massive hand shot out of the darkness.

Long, hard fingers wrapped around her wrist like a steel vice.

Eleonore gasped. She jerked her head up.

She stared straight into a pair of eyes that were as dark and cold as frozen water.

The man was tall. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the shadows around him.

A heavy, intoxicating scent hit her nose – sharp cedar mixed with dark tobacco.

He was holding an unlit match between his fingers.

He stared down at her, his jaw clenched tight.

The heat from his palm burned against the delicate skin of her wrist.

Eleonore yanked her arm back.

He didn't fight her. He let his fingers slide off her skin, dropping his hand to his side.

Eleonore took another step back. Her heart was hammering violently against her ribs.

"I am so sorry," Eleonore stammered. Her voice shook.

The man let out a low, dark sound in the back of his throat. It was a laugh, but it held no humor.

"Is this the new strategy?" he asked. His voice was a deep rumble that vibrated in the quiet garden. "Throwing yourself at me in the dark?"

Eleonore froze. Her eyebrows pulled together in pure confusion.

"What?" she asked, her breathing shallow. "No. I was looking for a pen. I dropped it."

He narrowed his eyes. His gaze slowly dragged down her body, taking in the expensive champagne velvet dress.

His upper lip curled into a sneer.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward.

The sheer size of him sucked the oxygen out of the space between them.

Eleonore stepped back again.

Her shoulder blades hit the cold, hard stone of the garden railing. She was trapped.

He leaned down. His face was inches from hers.

"Which company sent you?" he demanded. The pressure in his voice was crushing.

Eleonore bit down hard on her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood touched her tongue.

"No one sent me," she said, her voice tight. "I am a freelancer. I don't work for anyone."

He raised an eyebrow. He looked at her dress again.

He lifted his hand and tapped the unlit cedar match against the stone railing next to her head.

Click. Click.

"A freelancer," he repeated mockingly. "You want my attention? You have it. But your lies are pathetic."

A hot wave of humiliation crashed over Eleonore. Her ears burned.

She hated being backed into a corner. She hated the arrogant way he looked at her.

She turned her head sharply. Her hand shot out toward the bush beside the railing.

Her fingers closed around the stem of a white rose. She snapped it off, ignoring the thorns scraping her skin.

She turned back to him and shoved the flower directly into the breast pocket of his expensive suit jacket.

He flinched, completely caught off guard by the physical contact. He looked down at the white petals against his dark chest.

"Consider that an apology for bumping into you," Eleonore snapped.

She ducked under his arm and ran.

She didn't look back. Her heels clicked frantically against the stone path as she fled toward the glass doors.

Her hand reached the handle, but before she could pull it open, a loud crack of thunder shook the ground.

Keaton stood perfectly still in the dark.

He watched her run. The irritation in his chest slowly morphed into a sharp, dangerous curiosity.

He lifted his hand. His long fingers brushed against the soft petals of the rose.

He could still feel the faint warmth from her hand on the flower.

He gripped the cedar match. He struck it hard against the stone.

A blue flame flared to life, illuminating the sharp, predatory angles of his face.

He watched the glass doors behind her, still closed.

"Freelancer," he whispered into the dark.