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.

Eleonore pulled at the handle, but the glass door was stuck – or perhaps her rain‑slicked fingers simply slipped. She was still outside, under the narrow awning, when a second later the sky ripped open.

Heavy, freezing raindrops slammed into the stone patio.

Eleonore gasped. She threw her hands over her head, trying to protect her velvet dress from the sudden downpour.

She looked around frantically.

Leaning against a Roman pillar near the door was a long, clear plastic umbrella left for the guests.

She ran to it, grabbed the handle, and pushed the canopy open.

She let out a breath of relief as the rain hammered against the plastic shield.

She turned around to pull the door open again.

Through the rain, she saw him.

He was still standing in the exact same spot by the stone railing. He wasn't moving. The heavy rain was soaking into his tailored suit, flattening his dark hair against his forehead.

Eleonore groaned. Her chest tightened. She stared at the man getting drenched in the freezing downpour. Her mind raced. If he really was one of Bradley's elite rivals, letting him catch pneumonia on the night of the gala could cause a massive PR headache for the host committee. Or worse, Bradley could be blamed for the hostility. It was a weak excuse, and she knew it. The truth was, she couldn't just leave a human being standing out there looking so utterly isolated, no matter how arrogant he was. She couldn't abandon her basic decency just because he was a jerk. She bit her lip, gripped the umbrella handle tighter, and walked back out into the storm.

She stopped right in front of him. She lifted her arm, tilting the clear umbrella so it covered his head.

He looked down at her. The water was dripping from his jaw.

The space under the umbrella was incredibly small.

Eleonore was standing so close to him that she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

She could hear the slow, heavy thud of his heartbeat over the sound of the rain.

She felt completely overwhelmed by his physical presence. She dropped her gaze, staring at his chest to avoid his eyes.

Her eyes locked onto his lapel.

Pinned to the wet fabric was an antique brooch. It was a complex web of gold filigree, holding a massive, flawless black diamond in the center.

Eleonore's breath hitched.

She recognized the technique immediately. It was a lost art.

She forgot about the rain. She forgot about the terrifying man wearing it.

She rose up on her tiptoes, leaning her face closer to his chest to inspect the microscopic gold wires.

Her warm breath brushed against his wet shirt. It smelled faintly of vanilla and champagne.

Every muscle in Keaton's body locked tight.

His jaw clenched. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His eyes darkened to pitch black.

He thought she was making her move. He thought she was finally dropping the act.

He raised his hand, fully intending to wrap his fingers around her waist and pull her flush against him.

"The tension on these wires is impossible," Eleonore whispered to herself, completely mesmerized. "How did they cast the gold this thin without snapping it?"

Keaton's hand stopped in mid‑air.

He stared at the top of her head.

She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at a piece of dead metal.

A harsh, ugly wave of frustration hit him. He dropped his hand back to his side, his fingers curling into a tight fist.

Eleonore lowered herself back to her heels. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and shining with excitement.

She opened her mouth to ask him where he got it.

"Eleonore!"

The sharp, panicked voice sliced through the rain.

Eleonore jumped. She spun her head around.

Kierra was standing under the awning, waving her arms frantically. "Where are you? We have to go!"

Eleonore's heart leaped into her throat. The spell broke.

She looked back at the man.

"Sorry. My friend is looking for me," she blurted out.

She shoved the handle of the umbrella directly into his large hand.

She turned and sprinted through the rain, leaving him standing alone under the clear plastic dome.