Amara's POV :
I never liked galas. Too much sparkle, too many fake smiles and everyone pretending their lives were perfect.
But here I was anyway, stepping into Vale Industries' annual charity gala with Ethan at my side, press badge hanging against my chest. The place was huge: marble floors, gold trim everywhere, chandeliers so bright they made my eyes hurt.
Waiters in white uniforms moved through the crowd with champagne while people laughed at jokes that probably weren't funny. Women wore dresses that cost more than my rent, men wore watches that could pay off my student loans.
I gripped my bag tighter, felt the weight of my notebook inside. Focus. Interview Roman Vale. Get answers.
My father died here sixteen years ago. Heart attack, they said.
But I never believed it.
Ethan nudged me, my photographer, co-worker and the only reason I hadn't left already. "You look like you're gonna throw up."
"I'm not."
"You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Right. That's why you've checked your phone like six times."
I ignored him and kept walking, heels clicking loud on the marble. Roman Vale would be in the media lounge soon, giving his usual polished answers to boring questions.
But that wasn't why I was here.
So when Greg assigned Clara to cover this gala two weeks ago, I'd convinced him to send me instead. I told him Clara was busy, that I had questions ready, that I wouldn't let him down.
Clara had sent me a single text when she found out: "seriously?"
I didn't care. This wasn't about the assignment.
This was about finally getting close enough to ask the right questions.
"You okay?" Ethan asked. "You look kind of... I don't know. Freaked out?"
"I'm fine."
"Liar. You've got that look, the one you get when you're about to do something stupid."
"I don't have a look."
"You absolutely have a look. It's the same look you had before you climbed that fence to get photos of that politician's girlfriend."
"That was good journalism."
"That was trespassing and you fell in a bush."
"It was a strategic bush."
He snorted. "Right. Strategic."
We moved toward the bar, not for drinks but because I needed a view of the room, needed to see who was talking to who, figure out the power players.
That's when I saw him.
A man at the bar, drink in hand, watching me with a smile that made my skin crawl.
"You're new here," he said when I got close enough.
I glanced up: tall, good-looking, expensive suit, predatory eyes.
"Just passing through."
"Adrian Cross." He held out his hand, held it too long when I shook it, thumb brushing my knuckles. "And you are?"
My brain clicked. Adrian Cross, CEO of Cross Enterprises, Roman Vale's biggest competitor. They'd been at each other's throats for years.
Then last month they'd announced some joint defense contract. Classified, billions of dollars, sudden partnership.
Weird.
"Not interested," I said, pulling my hand back.
He laughed like I was playing hard to get. "I like a challenge."
"How about you don't."
Before he could respond, Ethan stepped between us. "She said no, man."
Adrian glanced at Ethan, then back at me, still smiling. "Your loss. But I'll be around."
He walked off toward a group of executives near the stage.
"That guy's a creep," Ethan muttered.
"Yeah." I watched Adrian work the room, all confidence and charm. "That's Adrian Cross. Vale's biggest rival."
"Wait, the guy who's been trying to destroy Vale for like five years?"
"That's him." I kept my eyes on Adrian. "Interesting that he's here acting like they're friends."
---
The media lounge was behind thick gold curtains, smaller than the ballroom with plush chairs, soft lighting, bottled water on a table like we actually mattered.
Cameras clicked while reporters shoved forward, everyone wanting the best spot.
Then he walked in.
Roman Vale.
The room shifted, not silent but quieter, that thing that happens when someone important shows up and everyone notices without wanting to look like they're noticing.
He was tall, well over six feet with broad shoulders that filled out his black suit perfectly. Dark hair styled but not overdone, sharp jaw with a thin scar running along it, faded but visible if you looked close.
But his eyes were what got me.
Pale blue-gray, cold, the kind that looked through you instead of at you.
He didn't smile, didn't need to, just stood there and the room rearranged itself around him. People moved back without thinking, gave him space.
My pulse spiked.
I straightened my shoulders and walked over, keeping my voice professional. "Mr. Vale"
His eyes locked onto mine, sharp and focused, like I was the only person in the room.
"Ms. Reyes." His voice was smooth, deep, every word precise.
A normal greeting, but the way he said my name made it sound like he was filing it away for later.
"I appreciate you making time for the press."
"It's expected at these events." His tone was polite but distant, like I was just another reporter in a long line of them.
Good. That made this easier.
---
We moved to a corner away from the other reporters who were already packing up, satisfied with their softball questions.
I started easy.
"Why education for this year's charity focus?"
"How does Vale balance profit with giving back?"
"What's next for the company?"
He answered like a businessman: smooth, polished, saying nothing real.
Time to push.
I leaned in slightly, dropped my voice. "The partnership with Cross Enterprises, that's unexpected. You two have been rivals for years. What changed?"
Something flickered in his expression, brief, gone before I could read it.
"Business evolves," he said, calm and controlled. "Strategic partnerships benefit both companies."
"Right, but Cross tried to buy you out last year and now you're partners on some classified defense contract. Seems like more than just business evolution."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Corporate strategy isn't always linear, Ms. Reyes."
"Or maybe someone needed something the other one had."
His gaze sharpened. "Careful."
"I'm just asking questions."
"No." His voice dropped. "You're fishing. There's a difference."
Fair point.
I switched gears. "In the early 2000s, your company had some issues. Sudden layoffs, safety reports that went missing. What was that about?"
His expression went completely blank.
"Company decisions follow regulations, Ms. Reyes." His voice was too calm. "But I'm curious why you're digging up old stories. I thought journalists cared about current events."
"I care about patterns."
"Patterns." He said it slow, testing the word. "Be careful with those. They lead you places you don't want to go."
"Maybe I like knowing where I'm going."
He didn't answer, just studied me with those cold eyes like he was seeing something I didn't want him to see.
I noticed the scar on his jaw again: thin, precise, deliberate looking.
He caught me staring.
"Something else you want to ask?"
"No." I glanced away. "Just observant."
"So am I." His eyes held mine. "Remember that."
Not quite a threat, not quite a warning, but close to both.
Then he stepped back, but before he could leave he leaned in close.
Really close.
I froze.
I could smell his cologne now: clean, expensive, something sharp and woody that would probably stick in my memory.
The space between us felt electric.
"One more thing, Ms. Reyes."
His voice dropped lower, quiet, just for me.
I felt the warmth of him, not touching but close enough that my skin buzzed.
"Questions about the past bring up answers people want buried." His breath brushed against my ear. "For everyone involved."
A shiver ran down my spine.
I forced myself to meet his eyes and they were so close I could see the darker ring around his pupils.
"Is that a warning?" My voice came out quieter than I wanted.
His gaze dropped to my mouth for just a second, then back up.
"Advice."
He stepped back and the moment broke, the noise of the gala rushed in.
He turned and walked away, the crowd swallowing him.
I stood there with my pulse still racing and skin still buzzing from how close he'd been.
What the hell just happened?
---
I needed air.
I pushed through the crowd, ignored Ethan calling after me, and slipped onto the balcony where cold night air hit my face, sharp and clean.
The city spread out below, all lights and noise and movement.
I leaned against the railing, trying to breathe, trying to think.
Roman Vale knew I was digging. How much did he know? What would he do to stop me?
Dad had been onto something big, something that got him killed, and every instinct I had said it was connected to Vale Industries, to whatever Roman was hiding behind that cold face and polished words.
My fingers traced the cold metal railing.
Then stopped.
There, carved into the corner, a small rose: delicate petals twisted inward, wrong somehow, unsettling.
My chest went tight.
I'd seen this before.
The memory was hazy, distant: Dad's study late at night, papers spread across his desk, me bringing him water even though Mom said not to bother him when he was working.
He'd smiled at me, tired but warm, and quickly turned one page face down.
But I'd seen the back of it. A rose drawn in the corner.
"Just work stuff, sweetie. Nothing important."
Three days later he told me he was onto something big, something that would blow everything wide open.
Three days after that he was dead.
I was twelve. The hospital smelled like disinfectant. Mom's hands shook when she signed papers. People kept saying sorry like that word could fix anything.
Six years of looking for answers. Every lead went nowhere. Every source either didn't know anything or wouldn't talk. Company records from sixteen years ago were missing or incomplete.
Mom wouldn't discuss it. Said talking about Dad just made it hurt worse.
I'd almost given up.
Until now.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and took a picture, the flash lit up the symbol for just a second and made the shadows in the petals look deeper, darker.
This wasn't random. This was connected to whatever Dad had been investigating.
Then I heard it.
A footstep behind me, too close, deliberate.
I spun around fast, adrenaline spiking.
No one there.
Just empty space and the curtain moving in the breeze.
My phone buzzed in my bag.
I grabbed it with shaking hands.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
> *Stop looking where you are not wanted.*
My breath caught.
Someone had been here, close enough to watch me find the rose, close enough to send this while I was still standing here.
The air felt too thin.
I scanned the balcony wildly. Empty. The ballroom behind me was full of people, music and laughter spilling through the curtains.
But out here it was just me and whoever sent that message.
Whoever was watching.
Ethan appeared in the doorway. "There you are. We should go, got what we needed."
I nodded, I didn't trust my voice.
"You good?" He squinted at me. "You look worse than before."
"I'm fine."
"That's what you said ten minutes ago and you still look like you're gonna pass out."
"Ethan."
"Alright, alright. Let's just get out of here before you do something else stupid. Please."
I followed him back inside, my legs unsteady and my heart still racing.
I should leave, go home, forget about this and move on with my life.
But I couldn't.
The rose symbol was burned into my mind, identical to the one on Dad's papers.
The warning sat heavy in my phone like a threat that wouldn't go away.
Roman Vale's words echoed: Questions about the past bring up answers people want buried.
Someone didn't want me here.
Someone was watching me right now, close enough to send that text, close enough to know exactly what I'd found.
And I had a feeling tonight was just the beginning.