Clearing My Name

Alex tilted his head, his interest sharpening. "Such as?"

"Clearing my name," Eva said, her voice tightening. "Clearing my name of this scandal that has been trailing me for years." She swallowed again. "I am not a lesbian—"

"That I can attest to," Alex cut in with a smug grin, raising his brows suggestively.

Eva glared. "Not helping."

He raised both hands in mock surrender, but the smirk didn't fade.

"I have never cheated on my husband," she continued, gripping her fork. "And most importantly"—she paused, took a deep breath—"I need to find my son."

Alex straightened, his cocky demeanor evaporating. "Your son?"

"Yes. My son." Her voice cracked but didn't break. Her nails dug slightly into her palm beneath the table. "He was kidnapped on the same night the scandal broke."

Alex's jaw flexed. "Yes, I heard about that," he said slowly, as if recalibrating everything he thought he knew about her. "But I just assumed… I mean, I thought he had been returned. That he was living with his father since you never mentioned him."

"No. He is still missing."

"I…" Her voice broke a little, and she hated that. She swallowed and straightened her posture. "I got a lead. Which is what prompted me to return from Paris. But so far, I haven't heard back."

Alex watched her carefully, thoughtfully. She expected sympathy. What she didn't expect was the sharp glint of resolve in his eyes.

"I would say you need me and my resources," he replied, his voice silk over steel. "But I'll let you think about my proposition."

The nerve. The confidence. The casual implication that he was the solution to all her heartbreak and havoc.

They finished their food in silence.

Around them, the murmurs of high society carried on. The clink of crystal, the rich hum of laughter, the occasional name-drop drifting from a nearby table. It was New York luxury at its peak: a blend of glamour and performance, where even sorrow was expected to wear stilettos and lip gloss.

After a few minutes, Eva sighed and straightened the hem of her dress.

"I also came here tonight to let you know that this has to end."

He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms.

"I am truly flattered," Eva continued, offering a polite but aching smile, "and grateful for everything you have done, Alex."

He nodded slowly, but his lips were drawn tight.

"There are some situations in life that we cannot stay away from," he said finally. "We just… gravitate toward it. Some people call it destiny."

She raised a brow, surprised. That was unusually poetic for him.

"I don't know what to call it," he added with a short, dry laugh. "I do not attend social parties, Eva. I hate them. Networking makes my skin crawl. But when the mayor's son invited me to his fundraiser, I thought, what the hell. Let's show face. Make a donation. Eat, drink and call it a night."

He paused, then leaned in slightly.

"Color me surprised to find you at the same party."

Eva gave a short laugh. "Coincidence," she replied, taking a sip of her drink to cool her nerves. "I have a friend who navigates the same social circle as you. He asked me to be his date."

"You mean your gay friend Brian."

"He isn't gay," Eva said defensively, even though the doubt flickered just behind her words. Her hands were clasped a little too tightly on the table now.

Alex leaned forward, resting his elbows on the linen-draped table, chin tilted. "Sweetie, if you cannot see that he is gay… then you should have your gay radar checked. The guy looks at other men like he wants to undress them."

Eva tried to picture Brian doing just that and failed miserably. "And you know this how?" she asked, lifting one brow as she sipped her champagne, pretending she was unbothered by Alex's baseless claim.

"Let's just say I kept a close eye on you guys at the party," he said, smirking. "The way he speaks, the way he carries himself, he hides it well, but sweetie, your friend is gay."

Eva made a show of scoffing, though the image of Brian complimenting three different men at the mayor's gala suddenly came rushing back with suspicious clarity. "He isn't. If he is, he would have told me."

Alex didn't respond to that. He just gave her a knowing look, the type men reserved for when they knew they were right but chose not to gloat—for now. It annoyed her more than his words.

"Last night, did you touch yourself?"

She nearly choked. "Excuse me?" Her voice rose half an octave.

"Just a simple question. Yes or no?"

Eva shook her head, still dazed from the whiplash. "No."

"Hmm." He made a satisfied sound. "So you're still as sexually frustrated as I am."

And just when she thought the absurdity had peaked, Alex reached out and pulled her chair closer with one smooth yank. She yelped softly as the wheels of her chair rolled noisily against the floor, drawing her to his side.

Her heart skipped several beats.

"I wouldn't know," she replied coolly, masking her rising pulse. "Maybe your arm candy from the party was waiting for you at home."

Alex chuckled. Beneath the table, his fingers had found their way to Eva's thigh, his touch deceptively gentle as it traced the hem of her dress, then slowly, sinfully, pushed it upward.

The tablecloth draped elegantly over their laps, white linen, pressed crisp shielded them from the view of the restaurant's high society patrons. Waiters glided past them carrying foie gras and thousand-dollar wines, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the surface of civility.

Eva stiffened slightly at first, a gasp catching in her throat. From the dangerous thrill of being touched in public by him. She clutched her wine glass a little too tightly, the cold crystal grounding her as the heat under the table bloomed.

"Is this why you instructed me not to wear underwear?" she whispered.