The scent of expensive champagne and designer perfume clung to the air, swirling through the grand ballroom like a whispered promise of indulgence. Gilded chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the city's elite as they clinked glasses and murmured in hushed, moneyed tones.
Lily Evans didn't belong here. She knew it the moment she stepped inside.
Dressed in a borrowed black gown that hugged her curves too perfectly—courtesy of her best friend's designer connections—she felt like an imposter. A struggling artist, living paycheck to paycheck, surrounded by men and women whose shoes alone cost more than her month's rent.
She was here on borrowed time, in borrowed confidence, for a chance at something real—a deal with the prestigious Leclair Gallery, which could catapult her from obscurity into the art world's limelight. If she could just find the right investor.
But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
A slow chill ran down her spine, her skin prickling with awareness. Someone was watching her.
She turned, and her breath hitched.
Anthony Calloway.
The name alone sent Wall Street into a frenzy. He was a force of nature in a tailored black suit, standing across the ballroom like a king surveying his kingdom.
His three-piece Armani suit was an effortless display of wealth—midnight black, with a crisp white dress shirt underneath, unbuttoned at the collar just enough to hint at the muscled chest beneath. His jacket was perfectly fitted, hugging his broad shoulders, and his polished cufflinks gleamed under the chandelier light. He wore power like a second skin, the subtle flex of his fingers against the glass of whiskey in his hand a reminder that he was a man who controlled everything around him.
But it wasn't just his attire that made him dangerous—it was the way he looked at her.
Dark, smoldering eyes locked onto her like she was prey, his expression unreadable but undeniably predatory.
Before she could move, he did.
One slow, deliberate step after another, he closed the space between them. The crowd parted instinctively, as if the sheer force of his presence commanded obedience.
And then he was there, towering over her, his cologne a lethal mix of spice and dominance.
"You're late," he murmured, his deep voice like velvet over steel.
Lily blinked. "I—excuse me?"
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "I don't appreciate waiting, sweetheart. But for a face like yours, I might make an exception."
Something about the way he said it—casual, yet deliberate—sent her pulse skittering.
She took a step back. "I think you have the wrong person—"
"Do I?" His gaze roamed over her, slow and unyielding, as if memorizing every inch. "You're exactly what I ordered."
Ordered?
Lily's stomach dropped.
Her eyes darted around the room, her heart hammering. The opulent setting, the power-hungry men, the elegant women draped in jewels like prizes on display. The realization slammed into her like a freight train.
He thought she was an escort.
Oh God.
Panic tightened her throat. She needed to leave. Now.
But Anthony Calloway wasn't a man who let things slip through his fingers.
And tonight… neither was she.