CHAPTER 4
Gabriel's Pov
That smirk.
Those eyes.
She walked away like she hadn't just turned my blood into fire. Like she hadn't just dragged her nail down my jaw and nearly made me lose control in the middle of my own damn club.
I hated that I admired it.
Women didn't usually ignore me. They didn't challenge me. They didn't turn down free drinks with the confidence of someone who could afford to. But she did.
And I couldn't get her out of my mind.
I didn't even know her name.
How could someone without a name feel like such a punch to the chest?
I was back at my office the next day, pacing the length of the room. My reflection in the glass walls smirked back at me, slightly pissed off.
"Who the hell are you?" I muttered to myself.
There was something about her—something more than just the way she looked. There was a storm behind her eyes. Like she'd been hurt.
This wasn't like me. I didn't chase. I didn't obsess.
But she walked in and rewired me with one damn look.
So I did the one thing I never did — I buzzed Cole.
"Bring me the security footage from last night. Just the main floor. And the bar."
There was a pause.
"Yes, sir. Right away."
Ten minutes later, Cole entered with a tablet in hand. I grabbed it and scrubbed through the footage until I found her.
Red dress. Confidence like armor. Sadness like a secret.
She didn't talk to anyone. Didn't flirt. Didn't linger. Just ordered her drinks, looked lost in her thoughts… and then me.
I froze the screen on her face. Zoomed in. And then told Cole to get me everything he could — entry logs, parking data, any receipts. Anything.
"I want a name," I said.
Cole nodded. "Also, Mr. Andersson. Before I forget, you're expected at the Veridian Hotel charity gala this weekend. It's hosted by the Rutherford Foundation. Your name's on the list."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, still staring at her frozen image. "Fine. Confirm it. I'll go."
I walked into a charity gala at the Veridian Hotel dressed in my sharpest tux, mask in place.
It was a formal masquerade event — something for children's hospitals, but mostly a social display for the elite to peacock around.
I hated masquerades.
Fake faces. Pretend manners. Small talk.
"Gabriel! There you are," came the voice of Henry Clarke, one of our major investors. "Let me introduce you to Ambassador Welles."
"Of course," I said smoothly, switching to autopilot as I shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and nodded at the right moments.
"Still keeping that empire of yours intact?" Welles chuckled.
"Trying my best. Though the paperwork is more dangerous than the competition."
Polite laughter followed. I slipped through three more introductions — a tech CEO, a shipping magnate's daughter, a luxury real estate broker — before I found myself cornered by an heiress detailing her family's vineyards in France.
"And you wouldn't believe the soil difference between Saint-Émilion and Margaux," she was saying.
I smiled thinly. "Fascinating."
The music in the background shifted.
A waltz.
Great.
"Shall we?" she asked, already taking my hand before I could answer.
I was ushered toward the dance floor — no doubt part of the show. Businessmen were expected to participate, to look the part, to mingle. I didn't care for dancing. But I tolerated it.
The routine was easy. Hold, step, turn. Every few minutes, partners switched, a traditional element to encourage mingling.
"You must be so used to women throwing themselves at you," she purred. Her fingers were trailing across my shoulder.
"Is that what you're doing now?" I asked flatly, not bothering to hide my boredom.
She let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe. Can you blame me? You're practically a walking fantasy."
"I'm also very real. And I don't do fantasy."
Her fingers drifted over my shoulder. "No? Maybe you just haven't met the right dream."
"Or maybe I've just learned not to chase smoke."
She pouted playfully. "A shame. You'd look good doing it."
"Not interested in looking good. I prefer real things."
"You sound like someone who's been burned."
"Don't we all carry a few scorch marks?"
She tilted her head. "Maybe. But some people are just better at hiding the fire."
I didn't bother responding. My attention was already fading.
Thankfully, the rotation happened just in time. One step back, one step forward — and then...
The next pair of arms that found mine sent a jolt through my spine.
Her eyes.
I'd know them anywhere.
Even behind the mask.
That same storm. That same flicker of fire.
My grip tightened instinctively. "You." I pulled her closer, plastering her front against me.
She blinked once. "Me."
"You've been on my mind, you know."
She raised a brow, lips twitching into a soft smirk. "Well, I must've made quite the impression."
"You tend to, when you disappear before giving your name."
Her lips curved. "Maybe I'm not one for names."
I twirled her, pulled her back in. My hand rested low on her bare back. Fuck me. "Fate has a funny way of bringing people back together."
Her gaze locked with mine, something sharper in her tone. "That's not fate exactly."
"No?"
"I meet people when I want to."
I chuckled, leaning closer. "So you do want me."
"Maybe I'm not here for you." Her voice was honey-laced steel. "Maybe I'm still looking for the person I came here for."
"And what if I told you to forget that person and spend the time with me. What if I want your name?"
She leaned in, so close her breath teased the edge of my jaw. My pulse thudded against my collar.
Her lips barely brushed my ear. "Then I'd say keep wanting."
Then, with the smooth timing of the partner rotation, she slipped out of my hold just as another woman moved in.
But my eyes didn't follow the new partner. They were locked on the woman in the black dress, heels clicking against the floor as she walked off.
She turned once — just once — to look back at me as if almost beckoning me to follow her before disappearing toward the ladies' room.
I didn't hesitate.
"Excuse me," I said, not even glancing at the new partner still talking.
And I followed her.