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.

Keaton's fingers tightened around the warm plastic handle of the umbrella.

He stood completely still, watching the champagne‑colored dress disappear into the hotel.

He looked down at his chest. The white rose she had shoved into his pocket was bruised and soaked with rain.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cold, humorless smile.

Heavy footsteps splashed against the stone path behind him.

Donte Hartman, his executive assistant, rushed up holding a massive black golf umbrella.

Donte stopped short. He stared at the cheap, clear plastic umbrella in his boss's hand. His eyes widened in shock.

Keaton didn't say a word. He tossed the clear umbrella onto the wet grass.

He stepped under Donte's black canopy.

“Find out who she is,” Keaton ordered. His voice sliced through the sound of the rain. “The girl in the champagne dress. She looked at that brooch like she knew more about it than I do. No one does that by accident.”

They walked toward the hotel entrance.

Right before they stepped under the awning, Keaton stopped.

He reached up with his long fingers and unclasped the antique black diamond brooch from his lapel.

He tossed it carelessly.

Donte fumbled, catching the priceless piece of jewelry against his chest.

“When you find her address,” Keaton said, staring straight ahead, “send that to her. Tell her it is an apology. Let’s see if she bites. If she’s truly a freelance nobody, she’ll cash it. If she’s connected to Bradley, she’ll panic. Either way, we learn.”

Donte swallowed hard. He nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Kaufman.”

Eleonore pulled the passenger door shut and collapsed into the leather seat of the red sports car.

The bottom of her velvet dress was soaked and heavy. She grabbed a handful of napkins from the glove compartment and pressed them against the wet fabric.

She was breathing fast. Her chest rose and fell heavily.

Kierra slammed the car into gear. “This city's weather is a nightmare,” Kierra complained, completely oblivious to Eleonore's shaking hands.

Thirty minutes later, they pulled into the underground garage of Eleonore's building.

They rode the elevator up to the penthouse in silence.

The top floor apartment had belonged to her grandfather, the legendary jeweler Pierce. She rarely used it – she preferred the honest grit of Bradley’s workshop – but tonight she was grateful for the privacy.

Eleonore pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The heavy door clicked open.

The lights in the living room were already on.

Sitting on the white leather sofa was a man in a light gray suit.

Dominique Conner turned his head. His soft, handsome face broke into a warm smile.

He saw Eleonore's wet hem and the exhausted look in her eyes. He stood up immediately.

He walked over and gently pulled the damp shawl off her shoulders.

“Did something happen at the gala?” Dominique asked. His voice was deep and soothing, filled with brotherly concern.

Kierra threw her keys on the counter. “She destroyed Cherie Washington. It was amazing.”

Dominique chuckled softly. He reached out and ruffled Eleonore's hair.

Eleonore ducked her head, feeling a flush of embarrassment. She walked over to the open kitchen and poured herself a glass of warm water.

Dominique pointed to three black folders sitting on the glass coffee table.

“Bradley rejected the new BNile designs,” Dominique said. “He wants you to fix them.”

Eleonore walked over and sat cross‑legged on the thick rug. She set her water glass down.

She opened the first folder.

Instantly, the exhaustion left her face. Her eyes sharpened.

She had been fixing Bradley’s “impossible” designs for two years now, always in secret. The world thought she was his apprentice; the truth was, she was his equal – and perhaps, in filigree, his better. But no one could ever know.

“The symmetry here is too rigid,” Eleonore said, tracing the lines with her finger. “It lacks soul. It looks like a machine made it.”

Dominique sat on the edge of the sofa beside her. He clicked his fountain pen and started taking notes, but his eyes kept drifting to the curve of her cheek.

Kierra watched them from the kitchen, a huge, knowing smirk on her face. She quietly slipped into the guest bedroom.

Eleonore flipped to the next page.

Suddenly, the loud, sharp buzz of the apartment intercom shattered the quiet room.