By seven-thirty, my nerves were fried. I had tried on four dresses before settling on the only one that didn't scream rookie assistant trying too hard. It was a simple black gown, off-shoulder, with just enough elegance to make me look like I belonged—maybe.
As I stared at my reflection, I couldn't shake the thought of Alexander's words:
> "You're representing me."
Those three words carried more weight than any job description ever could.
By the time I arrived at the luxury hotel ballroom, my heart was thudding against my ribs. Glittering chandeliers hung above, soft classical music played in the background, and the air smelled like champagne and success. I instantly felt out of place.
And then I saw him.
Alexander Hartman.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, standing at the center of attention like he owned the night. His tie was sharp, his watch gleamed under the golden light, and his expression was unreadable—as always.
When his eyes met mine, something flickered there. Surprise? Approval? Whatever it was, it made my breath catch.
"You're late," he murmured when I approached, though his gaze lingered longer than necessary.
"Traffic," I said, offering a nervous smile.
His eyes swept over my gown briefly, then he looked away. "At least you cleaned up well."
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult.
Before I could respond, a crowd of investors surrounded him, and I found myself standing silently by his side, trying not to knock over a million-dollar champagne tower.
Alexander was smooth—his voice low, his confidence magnetic. Everyone listened when he spoke. But what struck me most was how easily he wore his mask. The charming CEO. The perfect businessman. The man with no weaknesses.
Until a blonde woman in a red dress appeared.
"Alexander," she purred, looping her arm through his. "Still brooding and beautiful, I see."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Vanessa."
I didn't know who she was, but the way she smiled at him made my stomach twist. Ex-girlfriend, maybe? The kind that never really left your mind.
When Vanessa's gaze turned to me, she smirked. "And who's this?"
"Mia Carter," Alexander said smoothly. "My assistant."
The word assistant stung more than it should have.
Vanessa's smirk deepened. "How… convenient."
Before I could escape, a waiter passed by, and in my attempt to avoid eye contact, I accidentally bumped into him. Champagne splashed—straight onto Vanessa's red dress.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" I gasped, grabbing napkins.
Her expression turned murderous. "Do you even know what this costs?"
"Mia," Alexander said sharply, his tone cold but controlled. He stepped between us, shielding me. "That's enough, Vanessa."
"She ruined my dress!"
"And I'll buy you another one," he said, his voice icy calm. "Now, if you'll excuse us."
He guided me away, his hand firm on my lower back. The warmth of his touch sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. When we reached the balcony, I finally spoke.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Stop apologizing," he said, loosening his tie. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable. "You handled yourself better than most would've."
I blinked. "Was that… a compliment?"
He gave a small smirk, looking away. "Don't let it go to your head, Ms. Carter."
We stood there in silence for a moment—the city lights stretching beneath us, the cool breeze soft against my skin. For once, he didn't look like the Ice King everyone feared. He just looked… tired. Human.
And when his gaze met mine again, something unspoken passed between us—something neither of us was ready to name.
That night, I realized something terrifying.
The most dangerous thing about Alexander Hartman wasn't his power.
It was how easily he could make me forget to breathe.