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“I’ve been distracted,” I admitted, my tone more clipped than I intended.
She arched a perfect brow, her red lips curling into a playful smirk. “Well, maybe I can help with that.”
Her words were suggestive, her intent clear, but all I could think about was Scarlett.
The way she’d looked at me—direct but unguarded, like she wasn’t impressed by my name or my money.
That kind of honesty was rare, and it lingered in my mind like a melody I couldn’t shake.
“Not tonight,” I said, stepping back slightly, creating the space I needed. “I have a lot on my mind.”
The brunette’s smile faltered for just a moment before she regained her composure. “Suit yourself, Christian. But don’t keep me waiting forever.”
She walked away, her confidence unwavering, but I barely noticed. My thoughts were back in the kitchen, where Scarlett had disappeared.
The sounds of the gala seemed to blur into the background as I replayed our conversation.
I wasn’t used to this—feeling so unsteady, so out of control.
I could handle boardrooms and billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, but this woman had knocked me off balance with a few sentences and a killer smile.
Unable to focus on anything else, I finally gave up on small talk and called my driver. The penthouse was waiting, and maybe a change of scenery would help clear my head.
The ride back to my place was a blur. I stared out the window, the city lights streaking past like ghosts, but all I saw was her. Scarlett.
Her name echoed in my mind, soft but insistent, as if it had carved out a space for itself there.
By the time I stepped into the quiet luxury of my penthouse, I felt restless, the kind of restlessness that couldn’t be soothed by a drink or a distraction.
I poured myself a whiskey anyway, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as I tried to shake off the feeling.
I’d come to the gala expecting another forgettable night, but now, I felt the sharp sting of something I hadn’t felt in years: hunger.
After finishing my drink, I made my way to the bedroom, hoping sleep would come quickly.
But when I closed my eyes, she was there, vivid and impossible to ignore.
In the dream, we were in a kitchen—not the one at the gala, but one that felt warmer, more personal. The kitchen at the lake house our family owned.
Scarlett moved with ease, her hands deftly working over a cutting board. She looked up at me, her eyes sparkling with something unspoken, and smiled.
It wasn’t the polite smile she’d given me earlier in the evening; it was something real, something meant just for me.
I reached out to touch her, to tell her—what? I wasn’t even sure. But the dream slipped through my fingers, the image fading as quickly as it had come.
I woke with a start. My chest felt tight, my mind racing. I ran a hand through my hair and stared at the ceiling, the weight of the dream pressing down on me.
This wasn’t like me. Women didn’t haunt my thoughts like this—not even close. But Scarlett Lane wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met.
And I wasn’t sure I’d ever be the same again.
2
SCARLETT
The last champagneflute was gone, the final canapé devoured, and the ballroom stood empty, stripped of all its earlier sparkle.
Where laughter and clinking glasses had filled the space, now there was just silence, broken only by the faint hum of the cleaning staff wiping down the polished marble floors.