The gala ended in a haze of clinking glasses and perfumed air. Guests drifted toward waiting cars, their laughter echoing into the cool night like fragments of a song that wouldn't quite leave the ears. The air outside carried the faint scent of roses from the garden mingled with the acrid bite of exhaust, a strange blend that clung to Kierra's senses as she stepped into the night.
She slipped outside with them, her shawl pulled tight, though no fabric could calm the restless heat in her veins. Her pulse hadn't settled since she'd locked eyes with Logan across that glittering ballroom, since his gaze had lingered on her as if she weren't invisible, as if she weren't just a barista who didn't belong in a world of diamonds and whispered deals.
The valet stand bustled with activity, luxury cars gliding forward one after another. Black, silver, and gleaming red machines pulled up smoothly, chauffeurs rushing to open doors. Women laughed too loudly, men adjusted cufflinks as if their whole identity rested in that polished motion. Kierra clutched her small clutch against her chest, trying to disappear into the sea of glittering gowns and tuxedos. If she left quickly, she could put this night behind her, tuck it into a dark drawer in her memory and pretend it never happened.
But then—
"Miss Jade."
Her breath caught. His voice was distinct, a low timbre that wrapped around her spine and froze her where she stood.
She turned, and there he was. Logan.
He stood apart from the crowd, not waiting for his car, not pretending to check his watch like the others. He was still in his suit from the gala, though his bow tie hung loose, the top button of his shirt undone. The slight imperfection made him more dangerous, less the untouchable tycoon and more a man stripped bare of pretense. Even like this—perhaps especially like this—he looked untouchable, commanding. Yet his eyes… his eyes were on her and her alone, sharp, gray, and unrelenting.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, though her voice wavered. The words were meant to dismiss, to protect. Instead, they sounded fragile, like a warning she herself didn't believe.
"Neither should you," he countered, stepping closer. His footsteps were unhurried, deliberate. "But we both are."
Her heart hammered in her chest as if it were trying to break free.
A black car pulled up nearby, polished until the headlights glared like mirrors. Veronica's laughter rang out, soft but cutting, like crystal glasses colliding. She moved with elegance, her gown flowing like liquid silver as she slid gracefully into the back seat. Diamonds glittered on her wrists, flashing like small fires in the streetlights. The door shut softly, and the car eased away, merging into the night traffic.
Logan didn't move. He didn't so much as glance at her departure. His gaze remained fixed entirely on Kierra, as though no one else existed.
"Let me take you home," he said quietly. His voice was velvet over steel, soft enough to coax, strong enough to command.
She shook her head, clinging to reason even as her body leaned toward him. "That's not a good idea."
"I'm not asking if it's good," he replied, his voice low and firm. "I'm asking if you'll let me."
The world narrowed to just him, just this moment. Every sound around her dulled—the slam of car doors, the laughter of strangers, the murmur of engines. She heard only his words, felt only the heat radiating from the space between them.
Her heart thundered, every alarm bell inside screaming no. But when his hand brushed lightly against the small of her back, steadying her as another guest brushed past, her body betrayed her with a shiver that rolled through her entire frame.
"Yes," she whispered, the word trembling into the night.
The drive was silent at first.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the dark velvet of the sky. Inside the car, the air was thick with unspoken words. Kierra sat rigid, her fingers twisting together in her lap, the leather seat cool beneath her palms. She told herself to breathe, to steady herself, but the scent of his cologne—warm, clean, threaded with spice—filled the space, making the air heavy, impossible to ignore.
Logan's profile was sharp in the dim light of the dashboard, his jaw set in a line of quiet determination. One hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, veins standing out faintly against his skin. To anyone else, he looked calm, in control, the embodiment of composure. But Kierra noticed the small things—the tension in his hand, the faint crease between his brows, the way his eyes kept flicking toward her, unable to stay away for long.
"You shouldn't risk this," she said finally, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. Her throat felt dry, her words like smoke.
"I've built my life on risks," Logan murmured without looking at her. His gray eyes flicked to her then, catching hers for a split second before returning to the road. In that fraction of a moment, something softened. "But none of them ever felt like this."
Her chest tightened as though invisible hands pressed against her ribs. The honesty in his tone was dangerous, because it made her want to believe him. She looked away quickly, pressing her forehead lightly against the cool glass of the window, watching the blur of lights until her own reflection smeared against the pane.
When they reached her street, the car slowed, its engine purring low before quieting at the curb. The building loomed small and humble, its brick walls weathered and aged, a world away from the glittering towers of Logan's life.
He shifted into park, the sudden stillness of the car amplifying the silence between them. Kierra fumbled with her clutch, desperate to end the unbearable tension that had stretched tighter with every passing second. "Thank you for the ride."
She opened the door, her heels clicking lightly against the pavement, but before she could step out, his hand caught her wrist.
Always his hand. Always that tether pulling her back.
"Kierra."
Her name was a confession on his lips, raw, unguarded. It sent shivers racing down her spine.
She turned, and he was closer than she'd realized, the shadows of the car deepening the sharp planes of his face. His eyes burned with everything he hadn't said inside the ballroom, every word they weren't supposed to speak.
She should have pulled away, should have reminded him of Veronica, of the vows he'd taken, of the life built on rules she didn't belong in. But when his thumb brushed across her wrist, against the pounding pulse beneath her skin, her body betrayed her. She leaned in, drawn to him like gravity itself.
The kiss came like a storm breaking. Fierce. Unstoppable. His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that stole her breath, erased every boundary she had clung to. She tasted champagne, heat, and something darker—something forbidden that wrapped around her like chains.
Her clutch slipped to the floor of the car with a soft thud. Her hands tangled in his loosened tie, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything he wasn't supposed to give.
"God, Kierra," he muttered against her lips, his voice rough, frayed, almost desperate. Each word vibrated through her, sinking deep where reason no longer mattered.
Reality intruded for only a second when the blare of a car horn outside shattered the cocoon they had built. They broke apart, breathless, lips swollen, hearts racing.
"This is wrong," she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. It sounded like a plea, not a decision.
"I know." His hand slid from her wrist to her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin with tenderness that ached. "And I don't care."
Silence stretched, thick and dangerous, their breaths mingling in the air between them. His eyes searched hers as if daring her to push him away, to end this before it consumed them.
Finally, with trembling hands, she reached for the door handle again. Her lips still burned from his kiss, her heart still thundered in her chest.
"Goodnight, Logan," she whispered, her voice breaking on his name.
He didn't stop her this time. He let her go, though his eyes followed her every step until her door closed behind her.
Leaning against the wooden door, her knees weak, her breath shallow, Kierra pressed her hand against her chest. She could still taste him, still feel the imprint of his hand, the weight of his gaze.
There was no undoing this.
The line had been crossed.
And there would be no going back.