Chapter 9: The Rival’s Move

Harper stood in front of her cracked bathroom mirror Saturday evening, smoothing the sleek lines of a silver cocktail dress that shimmered like liquid metal. The neckline dipped low, the hem hit mid-thigh, and the fabric clung to her curves in a way that felt bold, defiant—a statement after last night's unraveling. Zane's slow, teasing kiss in the elevator had left her reeling, her body a live wire of frustration and want she couldn't shake. Tonight's event—a design showcase at a swanky Soho loft—wasn't his turf, but he'd insisted she attend, claiming it was "good for the job." She'd agreed, partly for the networking, partly because she knew he'd be there, and the thought of facing him again set her nerves ablaze.She'd spent the day tweaking kitchen updates—new cabinet renders, a matte-black island to replace that gaudy gold backsplash—burying herself in work to avoid the memory of his lips, his hands, the way he'd shattered her professional facade. His text at noon—5 p.m. Kitchen specs. Then the showcase. Don't be late—had been curt, businesslike, but she felt the undercurrent, the unspoken promise of more. She'd met him at the penthouse, kept it brisk—measurements approved, no lingering glances—and bolted before he could corner her again. Now, stepping into the loft's industrial-chic space—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, a buzz of creative elite—she steeled herself for round two.The room thrummed with energy, designers and clients mingling over flutes of champagne and minimalist hors d'oeuvres. She spotted Zane across the loft, leaning against a steel beam, whiskey in hand, his black suit sharp and unbuttoned at the collar. His gray eyes found hers through the crowd, a flicker of heat passing between them before he turned back to a silver-haired man—some investor, probably. She exhaled, grabbing a glass from a passing tray, determined to focus on work, not him."Harper Quinn, right?" The voice was smooth, too close, and she turned to find Julian Reese—blond, polished, the rival designer from the gala—grinning at her like he'd just won a prize. "Heard you're killing it with Carver's penthouse.""Julian," she said, keeping her tone neutral, sipping her champagne. "Yeah, it's coming along. What brings you here?""Scouting talent." His eyes roamed over her dress, lingering on the neckline, the slit at her thigh. "And you're the talk of the night. Mind if I steal you for a minute?"She hesitated, glancing at Zane—still deep in conversation, oblivious—and shrugged. "Sure. What's up?"He steered her toward a quieter corner, his hand brushing her elbow, a touch too familiar. "I've got a project—high-rise in Tribeca. Could use someone with your eye. Carver's not the only game in town, you know."Her brows lifted, interest piqued despite the warning bells. "I'm flattered, but I'm locked in with Zane's job. It's a big one.""Big doesn't mean exclusive." He leaned in, his smile widening, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I pay better. And I don't make my designers jump through hoops at midnight."She laughed, sharp and dry, stepping back. "You've heard about that, huh?""Word travels." His hand slid to her wrist, a light grip, but it lingered. "Come on, Harper. One drink, one pitch. Let me show you what I can offer."Her skin prickled—not from his touch, but from the sudden shift in the air, a shadow falling over them. She didn't need to look to know who it was. Zane's voice cut through, low and edged with steel. "She's busy, Reese."Julian straightened, his grin unfazed, dropping her wrist with a casual flick. "Carver. Didn't see you there. Just chatting with your star designer.""Chat's over." Zane stepped between them, his shoulder brushing hers, his presence a wall of heat and tension. His eyes locked on Julian, dark and unyielding. "Find someone else to poach."Julian chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "No harm meant. She's all yours." He winked at Harper, a parting shot, and sauntered off into the crowd.Harper turned to Zane, irritation flaring. "I can handle him, you know. You didn't need to play caveman."His jaw tightened, his gaze snapping to hers, stormy and raw. "He had his hands on you.""Barely," she shot back, crossing her arms, the champagne flute dangling from her fingers. "It's networking, Zane. Not a declaration of war.""Looked like more than networking." His voice dropped, rough with something she hadn't heard before—jealousy, sharp and unguarded. He stepped closer, crowding her against the brick wall, his hand brushing her hip. "You're mine tonight."Her breath caught, heat flooding her at the possessive edge in his tone. "Yours? I'm not a damn possession.""No?" His fingers tightened on her hip, pulling her flush against him, his lips hovering near her ear. "Then why'd you wear that dress for me?"She glared up at him, defiance warring with the shiver his words sparked. "I wore it for me. You're delusional.""Am I?" He smirked, but his eyes were dark, burning, and before she could retort, he grabbed her wrist, tugging her through the crowd. "Come with me.""Where—" She stumbled after him, heels clicking, as he wove past guests, his grip firm but not bruising. He pushed through a side door into a narrow hall, then shoved open another—a coatroom, dimly lit, lined with racks of jackets and the faint hum of the party muffled beyond."Zane, what the hell—" Her protest died as he spun her, backing her against the wall, his hands bracing beside her head, caging her in. The air was thick, heavy with his scent—cedar, whiskey, him—and the heat rolling off his body."He doesn't get to touch you," he growled, his face inches from hers, his breath hot against her cheek. "No one does."Her pulse roared, anger and want tangling in her chest. "You don't own me," she snapped, shoving at his chest, but he didn't budge, just pressed closer, his thigh slotting between hers."Don't I?" His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face up, his thumb brushing her lips, smearing her lipstick. "You're here with me. You feel this with me.""Feel what?" She challenged, her voice trembling despite her fury, her hands fisting in his jacket."This." He dipped his head, his mouth finding her neck—not gentle, not teasing, but possessive, a hard, open-mouthed kiss that made her gasp. His teeth grazed her skin, then bit down, a sharp sting that melted into a slow, deliberate suck, marking her as she arched against him, helpless to the heat pooling low in her belly."Zane—" Her voice broke, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, nails digging in as he kissed a trail along her throat, each press of his lips a claim, a brand. His hand slipped to her thigh, hiking her dress up, fingers gripping bare skin as he pressed himself tighter, his arousal evident through his slacks."You're mine tonight," he murmured against her pulse, his tongue soothing the spot he'd bitten, sending a shiver down her spine. "Say it.""No," she gasped, defiance flaring even as her body betrayed her, hips rocking against his thigh, seeking friction. His growl vibrated through her, and he kissed her neck again, harder, his teeth scraping as his hand slid higher, brushing the edge of her panties."Stubborn," he muttered, pulling back to meet her eyes, his own dark with hunger and triumph. A faint bruise bloomed on her neck, visible in the dim light, and he smirked, brushing it with his thumb. "That'll remind you."She glared, breathless, shoving him back a step. "You're an asshole.""And you love it." He stepped closer again, but she ducked under his arm, smoothing her dress with shaky hands, her skin tingling where he'd marked her."We're done here," she said, heading for the door, though her legs wobbled, her body screaming to stay."Not even close," he called after her, his voice rough with promise. "Kitchen specs tomorrow. 4 p.m. Wear that dress again."She didn't reply, slipping back into the party, the noise crashing over her like a wave. Julian caught her eye from across the room, his grin smug, but she ignored him, grabbing another champagne and downing it to cool the fire Zane had lit. Her neck throbbed, a secret under her hair, and she knew—damn it—she'd wear the dress tomorrow, if only to see how far he'd push her next.