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 massive. All marble floors and gold trim that probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
Chandeliers sparkled overhead like frozen stars, each one dripping with crystals that caught the light and threw it back in a thousand directions. Waiters in crisp white uniforms moved between tables carrying trays of champagne in delicate flutes, and laughter echoed off the high ceilings, bouncing around like it had nowhere else to go.
Everyone looked perfect. Women in designer dresses that probably had price tags I didn't want to think about. Men in tailored suits, watches that could pay my rent for a year. Smiles that seemed empty, practiced in mirrors until they looked natural. Hands that shook when they reached for drinks. Nerves, or maybe power, or maybe both.
I gripped my bag tighter, feeling the weight of my notebook inside, and reminded myself why I was here. Focus. Interview Roman Vale. Get answers. Nothing else.
Ethan nudged me with his elbow, nearly making me stumble in my heels. "You look like you're about to throw up, and we haven't even gotten to the champagne yet."
I shot him a look. "I'm not nervous. Just looking around."
"Looking around?" he said, grinning like he found this whole thing hilarious. "You mean panicking in style."
"I don't panic," I muttered, but my palms were sweating.
"Right. That's why you've checked your phone like six times in the last two minutes."
I ignored him and scanned the crowd, heels clicking on the marble as we moved deeper into the ballroom. The media area was somewhere near the back, tucked away where the real guests wouldn't have to deal with us. Roman Vale would be there soon, doing his obligatory press rounds. My editor had practically begged me to cover this event. A quote from Roman Vale could make any reporter's career, she'd said. Open doors. Get you noticed.
But that wasn't why I was here.
My father had died chasing secrets in this same company. Six years ago, almost to the day. Heart attack, the doctors said. Stress. Overwork. Nothing suspicious.
Except my father had been healthy. He'd been careful. And three days before he died, he'd told me he was close to something big. Something that would "blow the whole thing wide open."
Then he was gone.
And every lead I'd tried to follow since had hit a dead end.
Tonight felt like the first real step toward finding answers. Toward understanding what he'd been chasing. What had killed him.
I pushed the thought away before it could drag me under. Stay professional, Amara. Stay professional.
"You good?" Ethan asked, his voice softer now, concerned.
"Yeah," I lied. "I'm good."
We made our way toward the bar. Not for drinks, but because it gave us a good view of the room. I needed to see who was here, who was talking to who, what the power dynamics looked like. Journalism 101: observe everything.
That's when I noticed him.
A man leaning casually against the bar, drink in hand, eyes tracking me like I was the only interesting thing in the room. Not in a curious way. In a hungry way.
"You're new," he said as I got closer, not quite a question. His smile was smooth, practiced. The kind that probably worked on most women. Probably worked on a lot of women.
I glanced up, keeping my expression neutral. Tall, handsome in that polished, expensive way. Dark hair, sharp suit, confident posture. The type of man who knew exactly how good-looking he was and used it like a weapon.
"Just visiting," I said politely but distantly, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.
It wasn't.
"Adrian Cross." He extended his hand, and when I shook it, he held on a beat too long, thumb brushing against my knuckles. "And you are?"
"Amara." I pulled my hand back, resisting the urge to wipe it on my dress.
"Just Amara?" His eyes moved over me slowly, lingering on my face, my shoulders, the neckline of my dress. Not subtle. Not respectful. Just assessing. "No last name? No story?"
"Just here for the night," I said, keeping my voice even.
"Well, 'just here for the night' looks stunning in that dress." He leaned closer, and I could smell his cologne. Expensive, overwhelming. His voice dropped lower, intimate in a way that made my skin crawl. "Tell me you're not leaving without at least one dance. It would be a crime to waste that."
I felt Ethan stiffen beside me, but I kept my expression neutral. Professional. Polite. Even though I wanted to tell this guy exactly where he could shove his dance offer.
"I'm not really here to dance," I said.
"Then what are you here for?" Adrian's smile widened, playful but with an edge underneath. Like this was a game to him. Like I was a game. "Because a woman who looks like you doesn't just show up to a gala to stand in corners."
"Maybe I like corners," I said flatly.
He laughed, low and amused, like I'd said something genuinely funny instead of just trying to get him to leave me alone. "I like you already. Sharp and beautiful. Dangerous combination." He glanced toward the ballroom floor where couples were swaying to some classical piece I didn't recognize.
"One dance. Ten minutes. Then I'll let you go back to your mysterious corner watching."
Before I could answer, before I could tell him no in a way he'd actually understand, Ethan stepped in, positioning himself slightly between us.
"Actually, she's got somewhere to be," Ethan said, voice firm.
Adrian's eyes flicked to Ethan, sizing him up, then back to me with that same lazy confidence. Like Ethan was just a minor inconvenience, not an actual obstacle.
"Shame," Adrian said, raising his glass toward me in a mock toast. "But I'll find you later, Amara. Count on it."
He walked away, disappearing into the crowd of glittering dresses and dark suits.
I exhaled slowly, realizing I'd been holding my breath.
Ethan muttered under his breath, "That guy looked at you like you were dessert."
"Yeah," I said quietly, watching Adrian's back as he moved through the crowd. "He did."
Something about the way he'd looked at me made my skin crawl. Hungry, entitled, like I was something to win instead of someone to know. I'd dealt with men like that before. Men who thought charm and good looks were permission. Men who didn't hear the word no.
"Come on," Ethan said, tugging my arm gently. "Roman's in the media lounge now. Don't let that creep throw you off."
I nodded, shaking off the uncomfortable feeling Adrian had left behind, and followed Ethan through the crowd.
The media lounge was tucked behind heavy gold curtains, away from the main ballroom. It was smaller, quieter, but still fancy. Plush chairs, soft lighting, a table with water bottles and mints like we were important instead of just necessary.
Cameras clicked as photographers tested their settings. Reporters adjusted their microphones and pushed against each other, jostling for the best positions like this was a battlefield instead of a charity event. Everyone wanted the perfect angle, the perfect question, the perfect quote that would make their editor happy.
And then I saw him.
Roman Vale.
He didn't need to talk. He didn't need to smile. Just standing there in his perfectly tailored black suit, hands relaxed at his sides, he took over the entire room. It wasn't loud or showy. It was just presence. The kind of presence that made people move back without thinking, made conversations quiet down, made everyone pay attention whether they wanted to or not.
People around him shifted unconsciously, giving him space. Like he had his own gravity and they were all just orbiting around him.
His whole presence was cold. Controlled. Untouchable.
But somehow, I couldn't look away.
I swallowed hard, straightening my shoulders, and walked over with Ethan beside me. Professional. Confident. Like I belonged here.
"Mr. Vale," I said, keeping my voice steady even though my heart was pounding.
"Thank you for speaking with me tonight."
"Ms. Reyes." His voice was smooth, exact, every word carefully chosen. His eyes locked onto mine. Sharp, cold blue-gray, impossible to read. The focus in them made everyone else in the room disappear. "I wondered if you'd show up."
That caught me completely off guard. "You knew I'd be here?"
"I make it a point to know who's covering my events." A pause, deliberate and measured. "Especially when they're known for not giving up."
His tone wasn't warm. Wasn't cold either. Just watching. Observing. In complete control. Like he'd already figured out everything about me. My entire life story, every secret I'd ever kept. And stored it all away in some mental file cabinet.
It should have made me nervous.
Instead, it made me more determined.
We moved to a quieter corner, away from the other reporters who were already packing up, satisfied with their generic quotes about charity and corporate responsibility.
I started with the easy questions. Safe questions. The kind every reporter asked.
"What inspired Vale Industries to focus on education for this year's charity initiative?"
"How do you balance profit margins with philanthropic goals?"
"What's next for Vale Industries in the coming quarter?"
His answers were clean. Practiced. Perfect. The kind of responses that sounded good but said absolutely nothing.
But I hadn't come here for nothing.
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice so the remaining reporters wouldn't hear. "Back in the '90s, some former employees talked about sudden layoffs and missing safety reports. Were those decisions made to save money, or was there another reason?"
For just a split second, barely even a heartbeat, something changed in his eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Maybe recognition. Maybe surprise that I'd actually asked.
Then it was gone, his face smooth and unreadable again.
"All decisions follow company rules and the law, Ms. Reyes." His eyes stayed locked on mine, not blinking, not wavering. "Though I'm curious why a journalist would care about rumors from decades ago."
"I care about patterns," I said calmly, holding his gaze.
"Patterns." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "Be careful, Ms. Reyes. Sometimes patterns take you places you weren't planning to go."
As he spoke, I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A small scar along his jawline, barely visible in the soft lighting. It was thin, precise, like it had been made with something sharp. It looked old, faded with time, but deliberate. Like someone had meant to hurt him.
He caught me staring.
"Something else you'd like to ask, Ms. Reyes?"
"No," I said quickly, pulling my eyes away. "Just observant."
"So am I." His eyes held mine, and for a moment, the air between us felt charged. Heavy. "Remember that."
It wasn't exactly a threat. Wasn't exactly a warning.
But it felt like both.
For the first time that night, his expression changed. Not quite a smile. Something sharper. Something that made my stomach flip in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
He stepped back, breaking whatever strange moment that was. But before he turned to walk away, he leaned in slightly. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, something clean and expensive. Close enough to feel the cold control radiating off him like winter air.
"One more thing, Ms. Reyes," he said quietly, voice low enough that only I could hear. "Questions about the past have a way of bringing up answers people would rather stay buried. For everyone involved."
The way he said it, the weight behind the words, made my stomach twist.
"Is that a warning?" I asked.
His eyes met mine, unreadable. "Consider it advice."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke, like he'd never been there at all.
I stood there, frozen, hand gripping my notebook so hard my knuckles went white.
He didn't know about my father specifically, but he knew I was digging. He knew I was after something.
And he'd just made it very clear. Stop, or face the consequences.
I needed air. Now.
I pushed through the crowd, ignoring Ethan calling my name, and slipped out onto the balcony. The cool night breeze hit my face, sharp and clean, washing away the stuffiness of the ballroom. The city stretched out below like a sea of lights. Buildings and streets and lives all tangled together, quiet but alive.
I leaned against the railing, trying to steady my breathing. Trying to think.
Roman Vale knew I was investigating something. How much did he suspect? What did he know?
My fingers traced the cold metal railing absently, following the decorative curves without really looking.
And stopped.
There, carved into the corner of the balcony railing, was a small rose symbol. Delicate but deliberate, the lines precise and intentional. The petals twisted in a way that made my stomach tighten, made something in the back of my mind scream that this was important.
I didn't know why it felt familiar.
I didn't know why it bothered me so much.
But it did.
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and took a picture, zooming in on the carved lines. The flash lit up the symbol for just a second, making the shadows in the petals look deeper, darker.
Then I heard it.
A soft footstep behind me. Too close. Too quiet.
I spun around, heart hammering.
No one there.
Just the empty balcony. Just the heavy curtain moving slightly in the breeze, fabric rippling like water.
But on the railing, right beside the rose symbol, right where my hand had just been, was a white card. Small. Plain. Fresh.
The ink still looked wet.
I picked it up with trembling fingers.
Stop looking where you are not wanted.
My hands shook as I read it again. And again.
Someone had been here. Just now. Seconds ago. Watching me. Close enough to leave this. Close enough to touch me if they'd wanted to.
My breath came faster, shallow and panicked.
I shoved the card into my bag and looked around wildly, but the balcony was empty. The ballroom behind me was full of people, laughter and music spilling out through the curtains, but out here it was just me and the night and whoever had left that message.
Ethan appeared in the doorway, waving at me. "There you are! We should go. I got what we needed."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and walked back inside on unsteady legs.
Time to go. Time to leave this shiny, dangerous world behind and pretend nothing had gotten to me.
But I couldn't pretend.
The rose symbol was burned into my mind.
The warning was folded in my bag.
And Roman Vale's words echoed in my head: Questions about the past have a way of bringing up answers people would rather stay buried.
Someone didn't want me here
.
Someone was watching.
And I had a terrible feeling tonight was only the beginning.