A D R I A N

The problem wears a tuxedo and a donor badge, and he corners me before the champagne even flows.

“Valcrosse,” he says, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the strings quartet warming up nearby. “Six AEDs? Heat tents? Antivenom? What the hell are you doing with my money?”

Moonlight spills across the terrace, silver on the sea beyond. Lanterns sway overhead, gilding the crowd of benefactors in soft, forgiving light. Cameras flash as if to remind me: nothing here is private. Not even anger.

I smile like I was born for this stage. “Mr. Harrow, I was just about to compliment your tie. Still favoring Milan?”

He scowls, but the donors circling lean in, waiting. I know the rules—never let one man’s outrage infect the herd. I raise my glass just enough to catch the light.

“Preparedness,” I say smoothly, “is the greatest luxury. Guests don’t want to imagine emergencies, but serenity is knowing they’ll never have to fear them.”

Harrow narrows his eyes. “Serenity? You’ve doubled my foundation’s outlay.”

“And in return,” I counter, voice honey over steel, “our festival will be the safest in the hemisphere. No mother will lose a child here. No headline will scream negligence. What’s that worth, sir?”

The women at his elbow murmur approval. A man in tails chuckles, clapping Harrow on the back as though I’ve already won the point. Optics over substance—my specialty.

I let them laugh, let them toast. Behind them, I catch Elara’s gaze across the terrace. She’s in a simple black dress that makes the donors’ jewels look gaudy. Her expression is sharp, unreadable, but I know what she sees.

She sees me lying pretty. Turning her battlefield list into poetry for the rich. Selling safety like it’s champagne.

Her eyes hold mine for a breath too long, then slide away as she sips her water. The judgment in that motion burns hotter than Harrow’s fury ever could.

I return to the crowd, my smile polished, my charm lethal. I shake hands, I field questions, I spin numbers into promises. But the whole time, I feel her eyes on me. And every word I say tastes like smoke.

I escape the circle of donors on a tide of applause and clinking glasses. The quartet has shifted to something sweeping and delicate, strings twining with the hush of the sea. Lanterns drift overhead, tethered just enough to keep them from floating into the night sky. The terrace is all glitter, all glow.

And in the far corner, half-shadowed by a silvered palm, she waits.

Elara.

Her dress is simple, black with a clean neckline, nothing designed to dazzle. Yet every jewel-draped woman here looks like costume beside her. She doesn’t need sparkle. Her eyes are sharper than diamonds, fixed on me with the same precision she used to cut through panic on the lagoon.

“You sell death beautifully,” she says when I approach. Her voice is low, dry. “Preparedness as luxury? You made funerals sound like champagne.”

I let a smile curve slow, dangerous. “And you would’ve stood at the mic and told them exactly how many minutes it takes for a throat to close, wouldn’t you? Combustible is your brand, doctor. You’d scare the donors into cardiac arrest.”

Her brows lift, unimpressed. “Truth isn’t combustible. It’s medicine.”

“Truth is what buys coffins when funding dries up,” I counter, leaning closer, lowering my voice so only she hears. “I tell them serenity, and the money flows. You tell them autopsies, and the money runs.”

Her breath hitches, barely, at the nearness. I catch it. I savor it. Then she steadies herself, eyes narrowing. “You enjoy it, don’t you? Dressing up lies until they shine.”

“Only when the truth would burn the house down,” I murmur, close enough that my words stir the loose hair by her temple.

The air between us tightens, charged as the moment in the supply room. Her shoulders are squared, her gaze unflinching, but her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. Mine does too, though I’d never admit it.

For one dangerous second, I want to close the inch between us. The cameras, the donors, the whole terrace could collapse into the sea and I’d still want it.

Instead, I step back. Control reasserted. Her expression sharpens like a scalpel cutting clean.

“You’ll say anything for control,” she says.

“And you’ll burn everything for conviction,” I reply, my smile knife-sharp. “We’re both dangerous. Just in different flames.”

The gala dissolves into a haze of music and champagne. Donors drift toward their carriages and shuttles, their laughter scattering into the night like broken glass. Elara disappears into the crowd, her black dress vanishing in the tide of silk and sequins.

I don’t follow her. I can’t.

Because I’m already burning, and if I touch her now, the fire won’t stop.

Instead, I find a different outlet.

She’s waiting where they always are — discreet, curated, efficient. Not a guest. Not staff. A woman whose profession thrives on silence, on unmarked bills and unbroken rules.

Her dress is short, her lipstick already smeared. She doesn’t ask questions. She just tilts her head and says, “Your place or mine?”

“Mine,” I answer, voice flat.

The suite swallows us whole, moonlight pouring in over the ocean. I push her against the wall before the door clicks shut, my hand closing around her throat just enough to make her gasp. My mouth crashes to hers, hard, punishing. No tenderness. No pause. Just teeth and tongue and the promise of what I’ll take.

She moans like she’s starving. “Fuck, yes—”

I shove the dress up, tear lace down, and sink two fingers inside her before she can say another word. She’s soaked, clenching, grinding shamelessly against my hand. “So ready,” she whimpers, nails clawing at my shoulders.

“On the bed,” I growl.

She scrambles, spreads herself wide without hesitation, panties already dangling from one ankle. Her hands hook under her thighs, holding herself open, shameless. “Use me, Adrian. Don’t hold back.”

I don’t. I strip fast, fist my cock, and slam into her in one brutal thrust that makes her scream. No waiting, no easing. Just rough penetration, my hips snapping into hers until the bed rattles against the wall.

Her breasts bounce with every thrust, her cries porn-loud, engineered to flatter. “Harder! God, yes! Fuck me harder!”

I grip her ankles, pinning her wide, and drive deeper. My pace is merciless, hips pounding, every slap of flesh against flesh echoing off the glass. She’s nothing but heat and sound and submission.

“Such a good slut,” I mutter, voice low and detached. “You like being used?”

“Love it—fuck—don’t stop!” she cries, clenching around me.

I flip her over, shove her knees wide, and take her from behind. Her face presses to the sheets, ass high, dripping. I slam into her again, faster, harder, the wet slap obscene. She’s wailing, begging for more, calling me daddy, sir, anything she thinks I want to hear.

It’s empty. It’s all performance. And still I fuck her until I feel release surge hot and violent. I groan, spilling inside her, thrusting through it until my body shudders with aftershocks.

I pull out fast, already reaching for the shower. Behind me, she collapses on the sheets, flushed and satisfied, her voice dazed. “God, you’re unreal.”

I don’t answer. Because I feel nothing.

The only fire left in me isn’t hers. It’s Elara’s. Always Elara’s.

The shower scalds, steam fogging the glass wall until the ocean view disappears. I brace my palms against the tiles, water hammering over my shoulders, pounding at muscles that won’t unclench.

The woman’s cries still echo faint in the suite behind me. Moans engineered to flatter. Praise that was never about me, only about what I gave her permission to say. The kind of soundtrack I’ve used a hundred times to prove I’m in control.

But control feels hollow now.

I close my eyes, force myself to relive the rhythm—the way her body opened, the way she begged—but the wrong face flashes every time. Not her. Not the faceless one whose name I never bothered to ask.

Her.

Elara, soaked from the lagoon, spine straight before the donors, eyes sharp in the lantern light. Gray-green that don’t flinch, don’t flatter, don’t bow. She’s the only one who makes respect feel like hunger, and I hate her for it.

The water scalds hotter, but it doesn’t burn her image out.

I slam a fist lightly against the glass, a dull thud swallowed by steam. My reflection stares back faint, fractured. The heir. The commander. A man who takes what he wants and feels nothing.

Except now, I do.

And it’s unbearable.

The water cuts off, leaving only the hiss of steam and my pulse thudding in my ears. I drag a towel down my chest, cross back into the suite. The sheets are empty—the woman gone, as they always are. No names. No trace.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. One notification. Then another. Then a flood.

I swipe it open.

The headline slams into me first:
“Doctor Quinn Unlicensed? Seraphine’s Guests at Risk.”

Beneath it: a smear post already circulating. Cropped photos of Elara, snatched at the clinic, her credentials blurred in accusation. A thread of comments blooming fast, hungry for scandal.

Fraud. Liability. Lawsuit bait.

My jaw locks hard enough to ache.

This isn’t a donor’s irritation. This is war. A calculated strike designed to strip her of authority before she can build it. If the story spreads, the board won’t care about her competence. They’ll care about optics. And optics can bury a woman alive.

The steam still clings to me, dripping down my shoulders, but a cold fury settles deeper than any heat.

I toss the towel aside, grip the phone tight, and stare at the headline again.

Someone just made her a target.

Which means they made her mine.