Chapter 3 3

The Cipriani Wall Street ballroom was a cavern of gold leaf, velvet, and old money. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume.

Darian stood near a marble pillar, holding a glass of champagne she had no intention of drinking. She wore a black dress-backless, silk, with a slit that went up to her thigh. It was a dress Grant had bought her three years ago but forbid her to wear in public. "Too distracting," he had said. "Keep it for the bedroom."

Tonight, she wore it like armor.

She wasn't on the guest list. She had used an old favor from the event coordinator to slip in. Her target wasn't here yet, but he was.

Grant Charles entered the room like a king returning to his court. Cameras flashed, a blinding stroboscopic storm. Aimee hung on his arm, wearing a silver gown that shimmered like fish scales. She looked perfect. Plastic, but perfect.

Darian turned her back, focusing on the crowd. She needed to find Julian Vance.

"You have a lot of nerve."

The voice was right behind her ear. Low. Dangerous.

Darian didn't flinch. She turned slowly. Grant was standing there, too close. He smelled of scotch and aggression. He had abandoned Aimee to corner her.

"Hello, Grant. Enjoying the gala?"

Grant's eyes raked over her dress. His pupils dilated. "What are you wearing? You look like a high-priced escort."

"It's a dress, Grant. Try not to read too much into the fabric."

"Who are you here for?" He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He blocked her view of the room, boxing her in against the pillar. "Are you hunting? Looking for some old banker to pay your rent?"

"I'm networking," Darian said calmly. "Something I couldn't do when I was fetching your coffee."

"You don't belong here, Darian. You're a secretary. These people..." He gestured vaguely to the room. "...they will chew you up."

"I learned from the best shark in the tank," she retorted.

Grant grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, bruising. "Stop this. Come home. We can talk about a raise. I'll even double the stipend for your mother."

"Let go of me."

"No. You're making a scene."

He started to drag her toward the side exit, toward the service corridor. It was a familiar move-him taking control, him moving her where he wanted her to be.

They burst into the quiet, dimly lit hallway. The noise of the party faded behind the heavy doors.

Grant spun her around and pinned her against the wall. His body pressed against hers, heavy and hard.

"You think you can leave me?" he growled, his face inches from hers. "You belong to me, Darian. Seven years. I own every inch of you."

He lowered his head, aiming for her mouth. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a brand. He wanted to mark her, to remind her body who it responded to.

Darian felt a wave of nausea. The smell of him, once comforting, now triggered a violent rejection in her gut.

She turned her head sharply. His lips grazed her cheek.

"Grant, stop," she said, her voice icy.

"You want this," he murmured, his hand sliding down to her hip. "Your body remembers."

Darian didn't think. Her reaction was purely somatic.

She wrenched her hand free from his grasp. She swung.

CRACK.

Her palm connected with his cheekbone. The sound echoed in the empty corridor like a whip crack.

Grant stumbled back, his hand flying to his face. He looked at her, eyes wide with genuine shock. In seven years, she had never raised her voice, let alone a hand.

Her palm stung. It vibrated with the force of the blow.

"I am not your employee," Darian said, her voice shaking with rage. "I am not your property. And that was sexual harassment."

Grant touched his cheek. A red mark was already blooming on his pale skin. He stared at her, and for a second, Darian saw something twisted in his eyes. Not anger. Excitement.

"You hit me," he whispered.

"And I'll do it again if you touch me," she hissed.

"Oh my god!"

Aimee's shrill voice cut through the tension. She stood at the end of the hallway, flanked by two other socialites. She had brought an audience.

"She assaulted him!" Aimee shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at Darian. "Did you see that? She's drunk! She's crazy!"

Grant straightened up. The mask slammed back into place. He looked from Darian to Aimee, calculating the PR fallout.

"It's fine, Aimee," Grant said coldly. "She's... emotional. She's had too much to drink."

He threw Darian under the bus without blinking.

Darian looked at him. The man she had loved. The man she had protected.

"Emotional," Darian repeated. She smoothed the front of her dress. She looked at Aimee. "Keep him on a shorter leash, Aimee. He bites."

She walked past them. She walked past the gaping socialites. She walked back into the ballroom, her head high, her heart pounding a war drum against her ribs.

She didn't find Julian Vance that night. But as she exited the gala, she knew one thing for sure: She was done hiding.