The rest of the gala blurred for Kierra, her hands moving on autopilot as she refreshed trays, poured coffee, and nodded politely to guests who hardly noticed her existence. But her chest felt wound tight, every nerve aware of one truth—Logan Hayes was somewhere in the room, and more than once, she felt his gaze like a touch she couldn't brush off.
She told herself she was imagining it. That men like him didn't notice women like her—not twice. Yet when she dared a glance, their eyes collided again across the glittering ballroom. It was brief, but enough to undo every wall she tried to build.
Kierra forced herself to look away, to focus on her task. It was ridiculous. Dangerous. And yet her heart beat faster, traitorously alive under the weight of his attention.
By the time midnight slipped into the early hours, her manager gave her the nod to start clearing up. Her legs ached, her back protested, but it was a relief to escape the golden prison of chandeliers and champagne. She balanced the empty catering trays against her hip and pushed through the heavy doors into the quieter service corridor.
The hum of the gala dulled to a muffled echo behind her. Here, the lights were harsher, the air cooler, the illusion stripped away. Just linoleum floors, stacked crates, and a path toward the back exit where the catering van waited.
She was halfway down the hall when the sound of footsteps pulled her up short.
They were steady, deliberate. Not hurried like a waiter, not random like a lost guest. They belonged to someone who moved with intent.
Kierra's pulse leapt as she turned, already knowing.
Logan Hayes stepped into the corridor, shadows bending around him as though even the harsh lighting couldn't dim his presence. His jacket was gone, his tie loosened again, but his control—that effortless, dangerous calm—remained intact. Except now, there was no crowd, no wife, no orchestra. Just him. And her.
Her throat went dry. "You shouldn't be back here."
"Neither should you," he countered smoothly, his voice low enough to feel rather than just hear. "Yet here we are."
She clutched the tray tighter, using it as a shield. "I'm working. I don't think you can say the same."
His lips curved slightly, though his eyes didn't soften. "Maybe I'm curious."
"About what?" she asked before she could stop herself.
"You." The word landed with a weight that made her breath falter. "The girl who spilled coffee on me without trembling, who looks me in the eye when most people can't. The one who shouldn't be here, yet somehow keeps appearing."
Kierra shook her head, her laugh brittle. "Coincidence. That's all it is."
"Do you believe that?" he asked, taking a step closer.
The corridor suddenly felt smaller, air thinning around them. She could smell his cologne again—wood, smoke, and something darker beneath. Her body remembered the warmth of his hand on her wrist, the dangerous spark of humor in his eyes when she'd panicked at the spill. And now, standing this close, she realized just how much space he took up, how gravity seemed to bend toward him.
"You're married," she said firmly, forcing the words out as a lifeline. "And I'm nobody."
His gaze sharpened. "Don't say that."
Kierra blinked. "It's the truth."
"You think so little of yourself?" His tone wasn't cruel. It was quiet, steady, unsettling in its intensity. "Because I don't."
The tray trembled faintly in her grip. No one had ever spoken to her like that—not with such certainty, not with such piercing focus. She hated how her body betrayed her, heat rushing to her cheeks, her pulse wild. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not with him.
She stepped back, her shoulder brushing the cold wall. "You should go back to your wife."
His jaw tightened, the faintest crack in his controlled mask. "And you should walk away from me." His eyes swept over her face, deliberate, lingering. "But here we are."
Her chest rose and fell too quickly. For a suspended moment, the world outside the corridor ceased to exist. It was just the two of them, bound by silence and something neither dared name.
Kierra finally tore her gaze away, forcing air into her lungs. "This is insane," she whispered. "I need this job. I can't—" She broke off, shaking her head.
Logan studied her a beat longer, then exhaled, stepping back as though releasing her from an invisible hold. His voice, when it came, was quieter but no less potent. "I'll see you again, Kierra Jade."
Her name in his mouth was a promise and a warning all at once.
Then he was gone, his footsteps fading into the hum of the gala, leaving her pressed against the wall, trembling from the storm he carried with him.
Kierra barely remembered finishing her cleanup. The ride home passed in a blur, headlights flashing like ghosts against her window. By the time she stumbled into her apartment, exhaustion pulled at her bones, but her mind refused to rest. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again—his gaze, his words, the impossible weight of his attention.
She told herself it was madness. He was married. He was a tycoon, a man whose life was galaxies apart from hers. She couldn't afford even the fantasy.
But when sleep finally claimed her, she dreamed of gray eyes and a voice that had said, I'll see you again.
Logan entered his penthouse just past two in the morning. The city stretched out in glittering silence beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, but he hardly noticed. Veronica was waiting, a half-empty glass of wine on the side table beside her. She looked immaculate as always, her gown flowing like liquid emerald even as she sat, but her gaze was sharp.
"You disappeared," she said lightly, though her tone carried steel.
"Business call," he lied smoothly, loosening his tie.
Her eyes narrowed, but she smiled. "Always business."
Logan poured himself a drink, but as the amber liquid burned down his throat, his mind wasn't on his wife or the empire waiting for him in the morning. It was still in a quiet corridor behind the Astoria Grand. Still with a woman who didn't belong in his world, yet somehow had already invaded it.
And for the first time in a long while, Logan Hayes felt the dangerous stirrings of obsession.