Chapter 40: The Dance of Power

The moment Jackim placed his hand on the woman's waist, he felt it—the weight of eyes on him. Curious, judgmental, envious. The entire banquet hall was watching.

He had walked into a battlefield.

And now, he was dancing in the center of it.

The woman moved gracefully, her every step fluid, exuding confidence. Jackim followed her lead, matching her rhythm with ease. She studied him, a smirk playing on her lips.

"You don't seem nervous," she noted.

Jackim chuckled. "Should I be?"

"That depends," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Do you know who I am?"

Jackim met her gaze. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."

She laughed softly, clearly amused. "You're an interesting man, Jackim Jackson."

Hearing his full name from her lips sent a ripple of intrigue through him. She knew him.

And yet, he still didn't know her.

The dance continued, their movements smooth and unhurried. Around them, whispers grew.

"Who is she?"

"Why is she dancing with him?"

"He doesn't belong here."

Jackim ignored the murmurs.

"So, are you going to tell me your name, or do I have to guess?" he asked.

The woman's smile deepened. "Elara Laurent."

Jackim's eyes darkened slightly. He had heard that name before.

The Laurents were one of the most influential families in the city. Old money. Ruthless power.

Elara wasn't just a woman in a silver gown.

She was a queen among the elite.

And she had chosen to dance with him.

The song slowed, signaling the end of their dance. But before Jackim could step away, Elara leaned in, her lips brushing close to his ear.

"Not bad," she murmured. "But this world isn't as simple as a dance, Jackim."

He smirked. "Good. I hate simple things."

She pulled back, studying him, then gave him a slow, knowing smile. "Let's see if you still say that when the real games begin."

Jackim watched as she walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

He exhaled slowly.

This night had just become far more dangerous.

And far more interesting.

Jackim stepped off the dance floor, heading towards the bar, but before he could reach it, a familiar figure blocked his path.

Brandon Sinclair.

Again.

But this time, he wasn't alone.

Two other men flanked him, their expensive suits unable to hide the hostility in their eyes.

Jackim sighed. "You really don't get tired of embarrassing yourself, do you?"

Brandon's jaw twitched. "You think you're funny, Jackson?"

Jackim smirked. "No. I know I am."

The man on Brandon's left stepped forward. "You should watch your mouth. Do you even know who you just danced with?"

Jackim's expression didn't change. "Elara Laurent."

Brandon's smirk returned. "Exactly. And do you know what that means?"

Jackim's voice remained calm. "It means she chose me."

Silence.

Brandon's face darkened. "You arrogant—"

Before he could finish, a voice cut through the tension.

"That's enough."

Jackim turned.

Damian Rothschild.

The heir of the Rothschild family. The most dangerous man in the room.

And he was staring directly at Jackim.

"You've had your fun, Brandon," Damian said smoothly. "Let the boy breathe."

Brandon hesitated but eventually stepped back.

Jackim's gaze met Damian's.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Damian smirked. "You really are interesting, Jackson."

Jackim held his gaze. "You have no idea."

The night was far from over.