Chapter 4

The St. Regis ballroom was a sea of black tuxedos and glittering diamonds. The air was thick with the smell of expensive champagne, roasted truffles, and the predatory scent of Wall Street sharks circling a fresh kill.

Christina stood half a step behind Jackson's right shoulder. She wore a modest, floor-length black gown. It was elegant, but designed to make her blend into the shadows.

She held a sleek tablet, tracking the names and affiliations of everyone who approached him. Her feet ached in her heels, but her posture remained flawlessly straight.

"Jack, my boy!" a loud, booming voice cut through the chatter.

Christina's stomach instantly tightened.

Mickey Boggs pushed his way through the crowd. He was a heavy-set man in his fifties, his face flushed with alcohol, his tuxedo jacket straining at the buttons. He was the CEO of a logistics firm crucial to the upcoming merger.

Mickey smelled strongly of stale cigar smoke and cheap cologne.

"Mickey," Jackson said, his tone perfectly neutral. He didn't offer his hand.

Mickey didn't seem to care. He held two crystal glasses filled with dark amber liquid. He shoved one toward Jackson.

"Drink with me, Jack. To the merger!" Mickey slurred slightly.

Jackson looked at the glass. He held up his own glass of sparkling water. "I'm pacing myself tonight, Mickey. Early board meeting tomorrow."

Mickey's face fell, a flash of ugly annoyance crossing his features. He looked past Jackson and his eyes landed on Christina. His gaze dragged slowly down her body, making her skin crawl.

"Well, if Mr. Booker is too good for my scotch," Mickey said, a sleazy smile spreading across his face, "why doesn't your pretty little assistant drink it for him?"

He shoved the glass directly into Christina's face. The smell of the raw alcohol made her throat close up.

Christina took a half-step back, her eyes darting to Jackson. Tell him no, she pleaded silently. Tell him I'm working.

Jackson didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on Mickey.

"Mr. Boggs is a VIP guest, Christina," Jackson said, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of emotion. "Don't disappoint him."

The words were a physical blow. Christina felt the blood drain from her face. Her fingertips went completely numb.

He was throwing her to the wolves. For a logistics contract.

Mickey laughed, a wet, guttural sound. "Hear that, sweetheart? Drink up."

Christina's hand shook as she reached out and took the glass. The crystal was heavy. She brought it to her lips and tipped it back.

The scotch was cheap and burned like battery acid. It scorched her throat and hit her empty stomach like a lit match. She clamped her mouth shut, forcing herself not to cough, her eyes watering from the burn.

"Good girl," Mickey cheered. He immediately signaled a passing waiter and grabbed another glass, shoving it into her hand. "Another one!"

Christina looked at Jackson again. He was checking his phone, completely ignoring her humiliation.

She drank the second glass. Then a third.

By the fourth glass, the ballroom began to spin. Her stomach cramped violently, a sharp, twisting pain that made her want to double over. The edges of her vision blurred.

Mickey stepped closer. His sweaty, thick hand clamped down on her waist, his fingers digging into the silk of her dress.

"You know, Jack," Mickey said, leaning in so close Christina could smell the rotting food on his breath. "You've got a real talent for picking them."

Christina tried to pull away, but her legs felt like lead. She pushed weakly at Mickey's chest. "Please, don't."

Jackson's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his jaw tightened.

"Excuse me, Mickey. I need to take this," Jackson said.

He turned and walked toward the terrace doors, disappearing into the night air. He didn't even glance back. As she watched his retreating figure, Christina's peripheral vision caught another movement. The gentleman from Boston, Gaston Carter, was quietly excusing himself from the crowd and heading toward the hotel's private elevator banks. But the fleeting distraction was instantly shattered.

The moment Jackson was gone, Mickey's grip on her waist tightened painfully. He pulled her flush against his sweaty body.

"Looks like he left you to me," Mickey whispered, his wet lips brushing her ear.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the alcohol haze. Christina shoved him with both hands, using all her remaining strength. Mickey stumbled back a step, surprised.

"I need to use the restroom," Christina gasped, turning and practically running through the crowd.

She bumped into shoulders and spilled drinks, ignoring the annoyed glares. She pushed through the heavy doors of the women's lounge and stumbled toward the sinks.

She gripped the marble counter, her knuckles white. She leaned over the sink, dry heaving. Her stomach violently rejected the alcohol, but nothing came up but bitter acid.

Tears streamed down her face. She looked at her reflection. Her makeup was smeared, her eyes bloodshot. She looked like exactly what Jackson treated her as-trash.

The door to the lounge opened.

The sharp, rhythmic click of expensive heels echoed on the marble floor.

Christina quickly turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on her face, trying to hide her breakdown.

A woman stepped up to the sink next to hers. The air instantly filled with the scent of a custom, incredibly expensive floral perfume.

Christina glanced over.

The woman was stunning. She wore a white silk gown that draped perfectly over her slender figure. Her blonde hair was styled in flawless waves.

It was Carson Wall.

Christina's breath hitched. She froze, the water running over her hands.

Carson opened her white crocodile Hermes clutch. She pulled out a pristine linen handkerchief and held it out to Christina.

"Had a bit too much?" Carson asked. Her voice was soft, melodic, dripping with sympathy. "Wall Street parties are always so brutal on women. They expect us to keep up with the boys."

Christina stared at the handkerchief. She slowly reached out and took it. "Thank you."

"I'm Carson, by the way," she said, offering a warm, perfect smile.

"Christina," she replied, her voice raspy. She wiped her face, her heart hammering against her ribs. Did Carson know who she was?

Carson turned to the water dispenser in the corner. She filled a crystal glass with ice water and walked back, pressing it into Christina's hand.

"Drink this. It'll help settle your stomach," Carson said gently.

Christina took a sip. The cold water felt like heaven on her scorched throat. "Thank you. You're very kind."

Carson leaned against the counter, crossing her ankles. She looked at Christina, her blue eyes scanning her face with a slow, deliberate intensity.

"You came with Jackson, didn't you?" Carson asked casually. "I saw you standing behind him earlier. He seemed... distracted tonight."

Christina's grip on the glass tightened. The alcohol made her sluggish, but her survival instincts flared.

"I'm just his assistant," Christina said carefully. "I don't really know his moods."

Carson smiled. It was a beautiful smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Of course," Carson said. She pulled a tube of Tom Ford lipstick from her clutch and perfectly reapplied it, pressing her lips together. "Assistants never know anything, do they?"

She snapped her clutch shut.

"Feel better, Christina," Carson said, turning and walking out of the lounge.

Christina stood alone in the quiet bathroom. She looked down at the glass of water in her hand.

Suddenly, the water didn't feel soothing anymore. It felt cold, heavy, and deeply unsettling. Carson's eyes hadn't held sympathy. They had held the calculating look of a predator sizing up its prey.

Christina poured the rest of the water down the drain.