Chapter 4 The Gala Games

There was something about Manhattan at night that made everything feel like fiction. The skyline shimmered like a mirage, cloaking secrets in gold and glass. Tonight, Ivy Carter wasn't

just an executive assistant-she was a shadow in silk, standing beside one of the most powerful men in New York.

And pretending she wasn't completely unraveling inside.

"You're nervous," Damian said beside her as their car pulled up to the entrance of the Winterstone Foundation Charity Gala.

"No," she lied, smoothing her hand over her thigh. "Just calculating how many champagne flutes I can accept before I accidentally call someone 'Your Grace.'"

A corner of his mouth tugged upward. It was almost a smile.

He looked devastating tonight. Black tuxedo, charcoal shirt, no tie. The collar open just enough to hint at something Ivy had tried very hard not to imagine since their kiss.

Which they hadn't spoken about. Not once. Not since the email. The photo.

Not since Damian had frozen, turned cold, and instructed her to delete it without a word. And she had.

Because even though her brain screamed Ask him what they're threatening, her heart already knew the answer:

She wasn't ready to hear it.

"I need you sharp tonight," he said as they stepped out of the car into a sea of camera flashes and velvet ropes. "This room is filled with people who smile with knives in their pockets."

"I'm used to that," she said. "I went to business school." He smirked. "Try billionaires."

She wanted to ask if they were so different. But the moment passed.

---

Inside, the Winterstone ballroom glowed with chandeliers and expensive secrets. Every guest looked like they belonged on the cover of Forbes or in a courtroom. Waiters floated by with crystal trays. A string quartet played something dramatic.

Damian moved through the crowd like a ghost in command. He nodded, shook hands, whispered half-sentences that made stock prices rise.

Ivy stayed close, cataloging names, alliances, subtle jabs dressed as compliments.

They stopped near a group of investors, one of whom was clearly trying to impress a magazine editor with an overblown story about digital currency volatility.

"Carter," Damian said, eyes on the group, "what's your take?" She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"On crypto volatility. You were listening." A test. Again.

She lifted her chin. "They're using outdated models. Crypto's unpredictable because it's still being treated like currency instead of code. It's a language. You don't stabilize a language-you adapt to it."

The group blinked.

Damian smirked. "She's new." "And unfiltered," Ivy added.

They moved on.

---

An hour later, Ivy stepped away to catch her breath. The room was too loud, too gold, too full of people pretending they weren't calculating every interaction.

She wandered onto the terrace, where the night was cooler, quieter. "Ivy Carter," a voice said behind her.

She turned.

The man was tall, lean, sandy-haired. Late twenties. Familiar. And smiling like they'd known each other for years.

"Benji Ross," he said, offering his hand. "We had Quantitative Strategy together at Columbia. You used to sit in the front row and ask questions the professor couldn't answer."

Ivy blinked. "Benji. Oh my god."

He laughed. "I knew it was you. You cut your hair." "I upgraded my shampoo budget."

They shared a laugh.

"You work for Blackwell now," he said, eyes narrowing. "I've been hearing things." Ivy stiffened. "What kind of things?"

Benji leaned in, voice low. "Whispers. About a project he's developing. Something that could destabilize current cybersecurity standards. Something illegal, if it's true."

She stared at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

He shrugged. "Because I work for his biggest competitor now." "Redhawk," she said, the name sharp on her tongue.

Benji nodded. "You always were the smartest in the room, Ivy." She stepped back. "Don't contact me again."

"You sure?" he asked. "You're standing awful close to a fire. And you don't look like someone who wants to get burned."

---

Back inside, Ivy tried to find Damian, but the crowd had shifted. She was halfway through the ballroom when she froze.

A woman stood near the auction stage. Mid-thirties. Elegant. Blonde. The woman from the photo in Damian's desk.

Before Ivy could move, Damian appeared at her side, his hand at her elbow.

"I was looking for you," he said. "Who is that woman?" she asked. He followed her gaze.

His jaw locked. "That's my sister."

Ivy turned to him, stunned. "You said you were an only child."

"I said I didn't have family," he said. "That's not the same thing." "Why haven't I seen her before?"

"Because she hates me." The words hit like a slap. "Why?"

He looked at her then-really looked. "I ruined her life."

Before she could respond, the lights dimmed. A soft chime rang out as the gala host stepped on stage.

Damian leaned closer. "Don't trust anyone who offers to protect you tonight." Her stomach flipped. "What does that mean?"

But he was already moving toward the stage.

---

The auction was a blur. People bid on luxury vacations, rare art, a signed first edition of The Great Gatsby. Ivy clapped, smiled, drank one flute of champagne too fast.

Then she saw a familiar face slip into the back of the room. Alex.

Damian's head of security.

But... he hadn't mentioned attending.

She made her way toward the hallway, quietly following. Alex turned a corner, and Ivy quickened her pace.

She rounded the corner and stopped dead. Alex was speaking to someone-low, fast. A man in a dark suit.

Benji.

"I don't like this," Alex was saying. "She's too close."

"She's the key," Benji replied. "Get her to open the system." Alex scowled. "And if she won't?"

"Then we remind her what she stands to lose." Ivy took a step back.

Her heel hit the wall.

The conversation stopped. Benji looked up.

Their eyes met. Ivy turned and ran.

---

She burst into the main ballroom, chest heaving, scanning the crowd. Damian was near the exit, talking to a board member.

She pushed through people, reached him, gripped his arm.

"Now," she said. "We need to go. Now." He took one look at her face and nodded.

They left the gala in silence. The car ride was tense, their reflection doubled in the glass as the city blurred past.

In the elevator to the penthouse, Ivy finally spoke. "Your head of security is working with Redhawk." Damian said nothing.

She turned to him. "Did you know?"

"No," he said, voice low. "But I suspected someone was feeding them intel. I just didn't think it was him."

"I heard them," she said. "Benji said they're using me to open something. What system, Damian? What are they trying to get into?"

His eyes met hers.

And for the first time since she'd met him, she saw it. Fear.

"They're trying to access the project I've been building for five years. The one that could change everything about AI security. And they can't-they can't-get it."

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't just protect data," he said quietly. "It learns. It evolves. It makes decisions." Her blood ran cold. "You created an autonomous AI?"

He nodded once.

"And now they want it."

"But they can't take it," he said. "Because only one person in this company has the biometric clearance to open the final layer of code."

Ivy stared at him.

"No," she whispered. "Not me-" "You," he said. "It's keyed to you."