Chapter 3 A Gala of Ghosts

With its sparkling mix of old money, new technology, and unadulterated ambition, the Grantham Foundation Gala was the social event of the Dallas season. The air was heavy with the aroma of gardenias and pricey perfume, and the ballroom was a symphony of light and crystal. It was a battlefield for Sloane.

She arrived by herself, which was a statement in and of itself. In stark contrast to the frothy, revealing costumes surrounding her, her gown, a column of liquid silver, was stern and beautiful, with long sleeves and a high neck. In a room full of flickering candles, she was a blade of moonlight, and the crowd naturally parted to make place for her.

A calm smile remained on her lips as she navigated the crowd, exchanging niceties as light as ash. But her mind was like a besieged castle, looking around the room for one familiar silhouette. Her heart faltered at every laugh that was a bit too loud and every sight of brown hair streaked with sunlight.

She reassured herself, "He's not coming," as she accepted a flute of champagne from a server who was passing by. "His argument has been made. He wouldn't risk it."

"Wouldn't dare what, my dear?"

At her elbow, Holt Callahan showed up with flawless silver hair and concerned yet compassionate eyes. He was the chairman of the board, her father's oldest friend, and her strongest defender. "All evening, you've been tense. Isn't it that Kingman boy? His brief appearance in front of the cameras.

Sloane clarified, "He's not a boy, Holt," in a tense voice. "He is a shark. He's also circling.

"He's a distraction," Holt firmly stated while giving her arm a pat. "I'll admit, it's a pretty one. Prescott Global, meanwhile, has fared worse. It has gotten worse for you. Don't allow him to irritate you.

However, he had already arrived, a splinter festering deep within her soul.

Then there was a change in the atmosphere.

From the entryway, a surge of whispered excitement and a ripple of attention swept toward her. She did not have to look. She was aware. Warmth rose in the air, infused with a wild energy that was all his own.

It was Rhett Kingman.

He took in the space rather than merely walking in. His jacket was open, his bow tie was a little loose, and he wore a tuxedo with the same carefree insolence as his jeans. He walked through the gathering with effortless elegance, clapping backs and shaking hands. His deep, sincere laugh broke through the courteous conversation. In a room full of meticulously tended bonsai plants, he was a wildfire.

With her knuckles white over her champagne flute, Sloane kept her back to him. His approach felt to her like a storm approaching, a shift in barometric pressure.

"Prescott."

The voice, a low murmur that sent shivers down her spine, was directly behind her. Slowly, she turned, a veneer of cold indifference covering her features.

"Kingman. I see that you were able to locate a tie. An admirable endeavor.

His mouth twitched. "You look... expensive." His eyes skimmed her silver dress, not in awe but in evaluation. "Like a weapon polished for display."

In response, she said, "And you look like you're trying too hard," with a fragile smile. "The 'man of the people' routine is charming, but this isn't a rodeo."

"Darlin', everything is a rodeo. You're accustomed to observing from the sidelines. His presence was overwhelming as he moved closer. She could smell him, clean linen, sage, and something wild. "You've been avoiding my calls."

"I have a business to manage. I have no time for silly games.

His voice trailed off, becoming intimate and deadly as he added, "Is that what we're calling it?" Around them, the gala's clamor appeared to subside. "Sloane, the games we used to play weren't juvenile. They were really, really grown-up, as I remember.

A sudden, powerful flashback: the heat of a Texas night on bare skin, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers. A flush began to creep up her neck.

She said, "That was a different person," in a huskier tone than she had meant.

"Was it?" His fingers hovered close to the exposed flesh of her arm, but they did not touch her. A ghostly touch. "They have identical eyes. Anywhere, I'd know them. Despite the fact that they treat me as if I'm something they've scraped off their shoe.

His words were only for her, and he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. His courteous grin remained fixed on his face, providing the audience with the ideal illusion.

The name is a secret weapon. "You've changed, Amina," he muttered. "The crown weighs heavily, doesn't it?"

His whiskey-colored eyes held hers as he withdrew, peering right through her dress's silver armor, her cool-headedness, and the billion-dollar corporation. He was telling her that he had seen the scared girl who had fled in the middle of the night.

He winked at her slowly and purposefully before she could even gather her thoughts, let alone come up with a response. The ghost of her past danced behind him as he turned and vanished back into the crowd, leaving her alone in the center of the ballroom, shivering and alone.