DRAKE:
I spent six months planning this moment and she was about to ruin everything.
Not because she did anything wrong. Because she was perfect.
Sophia Castillo stood three feet away from me, looking at me with those amber eyes like she could see straight through my lies. Her cheeks had color in them now, pink spreading across olive skin. The diamonds around her throat caught the light with every breath she took.
I'd researched everything about her. Knew her favorite coffee order, her design philosophy, the charities she supported. Studied photographs until I could sketch her face from memory. Planned exactly what to say to make her trust me.
But none of that prepared me for how she looked when she blushed.
Focus, Drake. Remember why you're here.
"I'm sorry," she said, and her voice was softer now, less businesslike. "That was actually smooth. I've heard terrible pickup lines all night but yours was good."
"It wasn't a line." The lie came easily. I'd practiced it. "I meant it."
Her lips curved into a small smile. Real this time, not the fake one she'd been wearing for cameras. Something in my chest tightened.
This woman's father destroyed my family. Stole my father's invention and got rich while the Harrington name became a joke. My father killed himself because Antonio Castillo was a thief who ruined everything.
I was supposed to hate her.
"I'm Sophia Castillo," she said, offering her hand.
"Drake Harrington."
I watched her face for recognition. Most people knew the Harrington name, knew the scandal from twenty years ago. But Sophia just shook my hand with a grip that was firm and confident.
"Harrington Industries?" she asked. "Tech sector?"
"Among other things." I didn't let go of her hand yet. Her skin was warm, softer than I expected. "I've been following your work. The Midnight Phoenix collection is remarkable."
"You know jewelry design?"
"I know quality when I see it." I released her hand slowly. "Dance with me."
It wasn't really a question. I'd spent months engineering this moment. Bought table seven because it had perfect sightlines to where she'd be standing. Timed my approach down to the minute. Bribed the event coordinator to play specific songs at specific times.
Everything was calculated.
Sophia tilted her head, studying me. "Do you always tell women what to do?"
"Only when I know they'll say yes."
She laughed. Actually laughed, bright and genuine. The sound hit me like a punch to the stomach.
"That's incredibly arrogant," she said.
"Is it working?"
"Unfortunately." She set down her champagne glass. "One dance. Then I'm going home because these heels are killing me."
I offered my arm. She took it. Her fingers wrapped around my bicep and even through my jacket I felt the touch like electricity.
The orchestra was playing something slow and romantic. Perfect. I'd paid them extra to ensure it.
On the dance floor, I pulled Sophia close. One hand on her waist, the other holding hers. She fit against me like she was designed for this, for me. The realization made my jaw tight.
"So," she said as we started moving. "What does a tech billionaire want with a jewelry designer?"
"Who says I want anything?"
"You've been staring at me for twenty minutes. Men who stare like that always want something."
She was sharper than I expected. I'd have to be careful.
"Maybe I just appreciate beautiful things," I said.
"There are fifty beautiful women in this room. Why me?"
Because your father destroyed mine. Because I spent fifteen years planning how to make your family pay. Because ruining you is supposed to fix the hole in my chest where my father used to be.
"Because you're the only one who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else," I said instead.
Sophia's eyes widened slightly. Direct hit.
"I love these events," she said, but her voice was less certain now.
"You're lying." I spun her gently. "You hate the cameras. Hate the fake conversations. You'd rather be in your studio making something real."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I feel the same way at these things." Another lie, but one she needed to hear. "We're performers, you and I. We wear the right clothes, say the right things, smile until our faces hurt. But it's all costume."
Something shifted in her expression. The guard she'd been holding up cracked just a little.
"What would you rather be doing?" she asked quietly.
"Talking to you. Without all this noise." I looked at her seriously. "Having a real conversation where neither of us has to perform."
The music swelled around us. Sophia was close enough that I could smell her perfume, something expensive and subtle. Her hand tightened on my shoulder.
This was the moment. The hook I'd planned for months. Make her feel seen, understood, special. Make her think I was different from everyone else who wanted something from her.
It was all manipulation.
So why did my heart pound when she looked at me like that?
"Tell me something real," Sophia said. "Something you don't tell people at parties."
The request caught me off guard. I almost told her the truth. Almost said my father died hating her family, that I've spent half my life planning revenge, that every word out of my mouth tonight was a calculated lie.
Instead I said, "I hate champagne. Makes me feel sick. But I drink it at these events because that's what people expect."
Sophia laughed again. That same bright sound that made my chest hurt.
"I hate it too," she admitted. "Tastes like expensive sadness."
"Expensive sadness." I smiled despite myself. "That's perfect."
We talked while we danced. She told me about struggling to balance creativity with business. I told her about building my company from nothing after my father died. She mentioned loving architecture, the way buildings told stories. I mentioned collecting modern art, pieces that challenged perspective.
Every word she said, I memorized. Information was ammunition. Her vulnerabilities would become my weapons.
But something strange kept happening. When she talked about her parents dying in a factory fire, real pain crossed her face. When she described her uncle treating her like an employee instead of family, anger made her voice sharp. When she mentioned being alone most of the time, loneliness flickered in her eyes.
She wasn't just the Castillo heir I'd been tracking. She was a real person who hurt and hoped and tried so hard to be strong.
That wasn't supposed to matter.
The music ended. We stopped moving but I didn't let go of her waist.
"Have dinner with me," I said. "Tomorrow night."
"I don't know you."
"That's why we should have dinner. So you can know me."
"You're very persistent."
"You're very worth it."
Sophia bit her lip, considering. I could see the war happening behind her eyes. The careful part that knew better. The lonely part that wanted to say yes.
I needed her to say yes. The whole plan depended on it. Get close to her, earn her trust, learn her secrets. Destroy Castillo Designs from the inside using everything she told me.
My father's suicide note was in my desk drawer at home. I'd read it so many times the paper was wearing thin. Destroy the Castillos. Make them pay. Don't let my death be for nothing.
This was justice. This was necessary.
But Sophia was looking at me with amber eyes that held too much hope, and something in my chest cracked.
"One dinner," she said finally. "Somewhere quiet where we can actually talk without all this noise."
Victory. Phase one complete. I should feel satisfied.
Instead I felt sick.
"I know a place," I said. "Small Italian restaurant. No photographers."
"Perfect." She smiled, and it transformed her whole face. Made her look younger, softer, real.
I was going to destroy this woman. Use her trust against her. Break her heart as payment for what her father did to mine.
She pulled a card from her clutch and handed it to me. "Text me the address."
Our fingers touched when I took the card. That same electric shock ran through me.
Sophia stepped back, putting distance between us. "Thank you for the dance, Drake Harrington."
"Thank you for saying yes."
She walked away, disappearing into the crowd. I stood there holding her business card, my father's voice echoing in my head.
Make them pay.
I looked down at the card. Sophia Castillo, Creative Director, Castillo Designs. Her personal cell number was handwritten on the back.
Tomorrow night I'd take her to dinner. Charm her. Make her trust me. Start collecting the information I needed to dismantle everything she'd built.
This was revenge. This was what I'd worked toward for fifteen years.
So why did I feel like I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life?