Chapter 3: The Gala Gambit

Harper Quinn stared at her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror of her Brooklyn apartment, barely recognizing the woman looking back. The dress—a borrowed, floor-length number in shimmering emerald—hugged her curves like a second skin, the deep V-neck plunging just shy of scandalous. She'd wrestled her dark hair into loose waves, pinned half-up to show off the cheap-but-convincing chandelier earrings she'd snagged from a thrift store. Her makeup was bolder than usual: smoky eyes, a slash of red lipstick that screamed confidence she didn't entirely feel. Tonight wasn't about design sketches or sparring over tacky backsplashes. Tonight was Zane Carver's world—a charity gala at some swanky Midtown hotel—and she was stepping into it as his plus-one.She still wasn't sure how she'd let him talk her into this. After that scorching encounter in his office two days ago—the desk, his hands, that almost-too-far moment interrupted by his damn intercom—she'd spent Tuesday sketching in a haze, her skin still tingling from his touch. When he'd called yesterday, his voice all velvet and steel, asking her to join him at the gala "for business," she'd said yes before her brain could catch up. He'd framed it as a chance to network with his investors, to pitch her vision for the penthouse in a room full of deep pockets. But the way he'd said "wear something stunning" lingered in her mind, a challenge wrapped in a dare.Now, standing outside the hotel under a canopy of twinkling lights, she smoothed the dress and squared her shoulders. The doorman ushered her into a lobby dripping with opulence—marble columns, a chandelier the size of her apartment, and a buzz of voices in designer gowns and tuxedos. She spotted Zane before he saw her, leaning against a bar near the ballroom entrance, a glass of whiskey in hand. He looked like he'd been poured into his tuxedo—black, tailored to perfection, the bow tie undone and dangling loose, giving him a rakish edge that made her pulse skip. His dark hair caught the light, and when he turned, those gray eyes locked onto her like a missile finding its target."Harper," he said, his voice a low drawl as he straightened, setting the glass down. His gaze raked over her, slow and deliberate, lingering on the neckline, the slit that flashed her thigh as she walked. "You clean up well."She arched a brow, refusing to let him see how his stare set her nerves alight. "You're not so bad yourself. Though the bow tie's a choice."He smirked, stepping closer, close enough that she caught the cedar-and-whiskey scent that was starting to feel like a personal attack. "I don't do rules. You should know that by now." His fingers brushed her elbow, guiding her toward the ballroom. "Ready to charm some rich bastards?""Ready to work," she corrected, though her skin prickled where he touched her. "This is about the penthouse, right?""Mostly." His hand slid to the small of her back, a possessive press that sent heat curling up her spine. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you on my arm tonight."She shot him a sidelong glance, her lips twitching. "Careful, Zane. That almost sounds like a compliment.""It's a fact," he said, steering her through the double doors into a sea of glitter and wealth.The ballroom was a spectacle—crystal flutes clinking, a string quartet weaving through the hum of conversation, and a dance floor already swaying with couples. Zane didn't waste time, plunging them into the crowd with the ease of a man who owned every room he entered. He introduced her to investors, board members, and a few socialites whose names she'd never remember, his hand never leaving her back. She pitched her vision—bold, modern, a sanctuary worthy of a tycoon—and they nodded, impressed, though she suspected half their interest was in the way Zane watched her, like she was the only person in the room.An hour in, the champagne was flowing, and her feet ached in her borrowed heels. Zane had drifted off to talk shop with a silver-haired CEO, leaving her by the bar with a glass of bubbly she barely sipped. She was mid-eye-roll at a drunk heiress's story about her yacht when a shadow fell over her."Harper Quinn?" The voice was smooth, unfamiliar, and she turned to find a man—tall, blond, with a smile too polished to be genuine. "I'm Julian Reese. I've heard you're the genius behind Carver's new look."She set her glass down, sizing him up. "I'm the designer, yeah. And you are?""Competitor," he said, leaning in with a conspiratorial wink. "I bid on that penthouse job. Lost out to you, apparently. But I'm not bitter." His eyes flicked over her dress, lingering too long. "You're making waves. Care to tell me your secret?""Hard work," she said flatly, stepping back. "And a good eye."He laughed, undeterred, and offered his hand. "Dance with me. Let's see if your moves match your talent."She hesitated, glancing across the room where Zane was still deep in conversation. Julian's vibe screamed opportunist, but a dance might keep her from looking like a wallflower. "One dance," she said, letting him lead her to the floor.The quartet shifted into a slow, sultry number, and Julian pulled her close—too close—his hand sliding low on her waist. She stiffened, adjusting his grip with a pointed look. "Easy, Romeo. This isn't a tango.""Could be," he teased, spinning her with a flourish that made her dress flare. He was smooth, she'd give him that, but his charm felt rehearsed, a stark contrast to Zane's raw edge. She let him talk—something about his latest project—her mind drifting to the man she'd rather be dancing with.She didn't see Zane approach, but she felt him—a shift in the air, a prickle at the back of her neck. Julian's sentence cut off mid-word as Zane's hand clamped onto his shoulder, firm and unyielding."Mind if I cut in?" Zane's voice was deceptively calm, but his eyes were steel, locked on Julian with a warning that didn't need words.Julian smirked, stepping back with a mock bow. "All yours, Carver. She's a hell of a partner.""She is," Zane said, his tone clipped, and then his arm was around her, pulling her into him before she could protest. The quartet's melody softened, a slow waltz that matched the thud of her heart as Zane's hand settled on her hip, the other clasping hers with a grip that felt like ownership."You didn't have to do that," she said, her voice low as they began to move. "I can handle myself.""I know you can." His breath brushed her temple, warm and deliberate. "But I didn't like his hands on you."She tilted her head, meeting his gaze, and found a flicker of something raw—jealousy, maybe, or something darker. "Possessive much?""When it suits me." His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across the curve of her spine, pressing her closer until their bodies aligned—chest to chest, thigh to thigh. The heat of him seeped through her dress, and she fought to keep her breathing steady as they swayed, the room fading into a blur of light and sound.The dance was a slow burn, every step a tease. His thumb traced circles against her palm, a subtle caress that sent sparks up her arm. His lips hovered near her ear, not touching but close enough that she felt the ghost of them, and when he spoke, his voice was a rumble she felt in her bones. "You look dangerous tonight, Harper.""Dangerous?" She arched a brow, trying to keep her tone light despite the way her body responded, molding to his. "That's a new one.""Green's your color." His hand tightened on her hip, guiding her into a turn that pressed her flush against him. "Makes me want to find out how much trouble you can cause."Her laugh was shaky, her free hand resting on his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath his shirt. "You're the trouble here, Zane. I'm just trying to survive you.""Surviving's overrated." He dipped her slightly, his face inches from hers, and the world tilted—his eyes locked on her mouth, his breath mingling with hers. "Thriving's more fun."She couldn't look away, couldn't stop the way her lips parted, an invitation she didn't mean to give. The music swelled, and he pulled her upright, spinning her once before drawing her back in, tighter this time. His hand slid up her back, fingers brushing the bare skin above her dress's low cut, and she shivered, her nails digging into his shoulder."Zane," she whispered, a warning or a plea—she wasn't sure which."Tell me to stop," he murmured, echoing that moment in his office, his lips so close she could taste the whiskey on his breath. His hand moved lower again, resting just above the curve of her ass, a bold claim in a room full of eyes.She didn't tell him to stop. Instead, she leaned in, her cheek brushing his, her voice a husky challenge. "You wouldn't dare kiss me here."His laugh was low, dangerous. "Wouldn't I?"He didn't—not quite. But he turned his head, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth, a tease that left her dizzy with want. The almost-kiss lingered, a promise of what could've been, and when he pulled back, his eyes were molten, daring her to push him further.The song ended, applause rippling through the crowd, and he stepped away, leaving her breathless and unsteady. "Good pitch tonight," he said, his tone casual as if he hadn't just set her on fire. "Investors loved you."She blinked, grasping for composure. "Right. Business.""Always." He smirked, offering his arm. "Drink?"She nodded, letting him lead her off the floor, her body still humming with the echo of his touch. Julian watched from the bar, his grin smug, but she barely noticed. All she could feel was Zane—the heat of his hand, the memory of his lips, and the certainty that this night had shifted something between them she couldn't undo.As they reached the bar, his fingers brushed her wrist, a fleeting promise. "Next time," he said under his breath, "we finish that dance."She didn't reply, just sipped her champagne and prayed the night wouldn't end—or that it would, before she did something reckless like drag him into a coatroom and find out exactly how far he'd take it.