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CHAPTER TWELVE

Lea

The limousine purrs to a stop at the foot of the marble steps. Through tinted windows, I glimpse the flash of cameras, the glide of designer gowns, the sparkle of diamonds catching light. My heart jumps, a frantic bird against my ribs.

“Ready?” Nico asks, his voice smooth and controlled beside me.

Ready for what? I want to ask. Ready to step into a world where I don’t belong? Ready to pretend I’m something I’m not?

Instead, I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the red silk gown that arrived at my apartment this morning in a black garment bag. No note, just the dress. A silent command from the man beside me.

“As I’ll ever be,” I manage, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

The chauffeur opens the door, and Nico steps out first. I watch his movements, all fluid, confident, the movements of a man who knows his place in the world and claims it without hesitation. He turns, extending his hand to me, and for a moment, I hesitate.

Taking his hand means something. An acceptance, my surrender?

Haven’t I already made my choice? The moment I agreed to his terms, his protection? The moment I stepped onto this path?

I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and strong, and he helps me from the car with a gentleness that surprises me.

The moment my stiletto-clad feet touch the red carpet, I’m aware of the shift in attention. Heads turn, gazes sweep over us, conversations pause mid-sentence. The air itself seems to change, charged with curiosity and speculation.

“Chin up,” Nico murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “You look stunning.”

The compliment lands, catching me off guard. I glance down at the gown. The deep red silk feels cool and whisper-soft against my bare shoulders, the neckline dipping low enough to be daring without crossing into vulgar. It’s exactly the right shade to complement my golden skin, the perfect cut to accentuate my figure without making me look like arm candy.

I’d expected something more obvious, something that screamed ownership or objectification. Instead, he’s chosen a dress that makes me look like the best version of myself. The realization sends a confusing ripple of gratitude through me.

Nico offers his arm, and I take it, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fine fabric of his tuxedo. We ascend the steps together, the solid weight of his arm anchoring me, and with each step, I feel myself transforming from Lea Song, struggling journalist with an overdue electric bill, into someone who belongs in this dazzling world of wealth and power.

“Remember,” Nico says as we reach the top of the stairs, “tonight, you’re with me. Not as a journalist. Not as an observer.”

“As what, then?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

His dark eyes meet mine, intense, opaque. “As mine.”

The word sends dread through me that I refuse to acknowledge as anything but indignation.

We enter the grand foyer of the Chicago Art Institute, transformed tonight into a wonderland of crystal chandeliers and floral arrangements. The air smells of expensive perfume and lilies. A string quartet plays a classical piece in the corner, the notes floating above the low hum of cultured conversation, reverberating in the cavernous space.

Nico’s hand settles at the small of my back, a light pressure that somehow feels like it’s burning through the silk of my dress. He guides me through the crowd with the ease of someone navigating familiar territory.

“Mayor Jenkins,” Nico says, stopping before a portly man with silver hair and a red face. “A pleasure to see you again.”

The mayor turns, his expression shifting from polite boredom to alert interest. “Varela! Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

They shake hands, and I don’t miss the way the mayor’s eyes flick nervously around, as if checking who might witness this interaction.

“I never miss the Children’s Hospital fundraiser,” Nico replies. “Allow me to introduce Lea Song.”

The mayor’s gaze shifts to me, assessing, curious. I extend my hand, summoning every ounce of poise I can muster.

“Ms. Song,” he says, taking my hand. “Are you in business with Mr. Varela?”

Before I can answer, Nico’s fingers press against my back, a warning, a reminder.

“Ms. Song is a journalist,” Nico says, his tone casual but carrying an undercurrent I can’t quite interpret. “But she’s here with me tonight in a personal capacity.”

Personal capacity. The phrase hangs in the air, loaded with implication. The mayor’s eyebrows rise, and I see the moment he re-categorizes me in his mind from a potential threat to Nico’s…what? Girlfriend? Lover? Possession?

“I see,” the mayor says, giving me an entirely different kind of look now. “Well, enjoy the event. The silent auction has some remarkable items this year.”

As we move away, Nico’s hand slides to my elbow, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin there, my bruises covered up with make-up. It’s such a slight point of contact, but my body reacts as if he’s caressed a much more intimate place, heat prickling beneath my skin.

“You need to relax,” he murmurs, leading me toward a waiter carrying flutes of champagne. He takes two, handing one to me. “No one here is going to eat you alive.”

No one except you, I think, but don’t say it aloud. Instead, I take a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue.

“I’m not exactly in my natural habitat,” I admit, scanning the room filled with Chicago’s elite. “The last formal event I attended was my college graduation.”

A smile graces his lips. “You’re doing fine. Just follow my lead.”

And so I do, floating through the crowd on his arm, watching as he navigates the intricate social landscape with masterful precision. He introduces me to judges who greet him with cautious respect, to philanthropists who seem delighted by his presence, even to a minor European royal whose long name I immediately forget.

With each introduction, each conversation, I’m relaxing incrementally. The champagne helps, warming my blood and softening the edges of my anxiety. But it’s more than that. There’s something almost intoxicating about being here, about being perceived as someone important enough to be on Nico Varela’s arm.

A treacherous thought slips into my mind: What if this were real? What if I weren’t here as part of some complex game of power and control, but simply as a woman accompanying a man to a gala? What if the heat of his hand at my back, the brush of his fingers against mine when he hands me a fresh glass of champagne, weren’t planned moves in his seduction strategy but genuine gestures of affection?

The fantasy burns bright for a moment. Me, belonging in this world of luxury and influence, standing beside Nico not as a pawn but as a partner. It’s so vivid, so alluring, that my breath hitches in my throat.

I banish the thought, horrified by my weakness. This is exactly what he wants. For me to lose myself in the illusion, to forget why I’m here, to surrender to the pull of his constructed reality.

“Senator Mitchell is retiring next month,” Nico says, leaning close to speak directly into my ear. His breath skims my skin, warm and intimate, and I can’t suppress the involuntary tremor that runs through me. “He’s spent the last decade on the Judiciary Committee, always voting against increased sentencing for white-collar crimes.”

I turn my head, our faces now inches apart. “Convenient for certain businessmen,” I murmur back.

His eyes glint with something like approval. “Indeed. He’s also blocked every attempt to increase funding for financial crimes investigation units.”

“And now he’s retiring with a generous pension and a cushy consulting job waiting for him,” I say, unable to keep the cynicism from my voice.

Nico’s lips curve in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Three consultancy positions, actually. All with firms that benefited from his voting record.”

The conversation should disgust me. It should reinforce everything I’ve always believed about the corrupt system that allows men like Nico to operate with impunity. Instead, I feel a twisted thrill at being privy to this inside knowledge, at standing beside the man who understands how the game is truly played.

What’s happening to me?

Before I can examine this disturbing response too closely, a snippet of conversation from a nearby group catches my attention.

“—Professor Song’s presentation at the security conference next week?—”

My head snaps around, searching for the source of the comment. A small cluster of academic-looking types stands near a display of auction items, deep in conversation.

“—last-minute addition to the program, but her research on East Asia criminal networks is groundbreaking?—”

My mother’s name sends a jolt through me. She rarely mentions her speaking engagements to me, but a security conference? That’s not her usual academic circuit.

“Excuse me,” I murmur to Nico, who’s now engaged in a conversation with a silver-haired judge. “Powder room.”

He gives me a look that suggests he doesn’t quite believe me, but nods anyway. “Don’t wander far.”

The warning in his tone is clear, but I’m too preoccupied with what I’ve just overheard to care. I make my way toward the edge of the ballroom, slipping through a set of French doors onto a balcony that overlooks the city.

The night air is chilled, a welcome relief after the close quarters inside. Chicago sprawls in front of me, a vast expanse of lights against the darkness. I pull out the phone Nico gave me, the one I’m certain is monitored, and hesitate. Should I call my mother on this device? But what choice do I have? My personal phone is sitting in Nico’s office.

To hell with it. I dial the number, my fingers trembling. After four rings, she picks up.

“Mom?”

“Lea?” Her voice sounds tense, guarded. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I just…I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Honey, I’ve been busy with end-of-term papers,” she says, the explanation coming a little too rushed. “You know how it is this time of year.”

“Right,” I say, leaning against the stone balustrade. “I’m at a charity gala at the Art Institute. With Nico Varela.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then silence, so prolonged, I check my phone to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.

“Mom?”

“Lea,” she finally says, her voice now taut with alarm, “what are you doing with that man?”

The intensity of her reaction startles me. “It’s for a story I’m working on. He’s granted me access to?—”

“Listen to me,” she interrupts, her voice dropping to an urgent, hushed tone. “His kind sees only assets and liabilities. Nothing more. Stay far away from him.”

There’s something in her tone that suggests more than general concern.

“Mom, how do you?—”

“I have to go,” she cuts me off. “There’s someone at my office door.”

“At nine o’clock at night?” I ask, suspicion flaring. “What kind of academic meeting happens this late?”

“It’s a colleague from overseas,” she says, the explanation sounding rehearsed. “The time difference makes scheduling difficult. Please, be careful. More careful than you think necessary.”

The line goes dead before I can respond, leaving me staring at the phone in frustration and confusion. What the hell was that about? And what does my mother know about Nico that would prompt such a specific warning?

I turn back toward the glittering cityscape, my mind racing. My mother has always been secretive about her past in Korea before moving to England where she met my father, but this level of secrecy is new. Between her cryptic warning and the overheard comment about a security conference I knew nothing about, my journalistic instincts scream that there’s a story here. One that might somehow intersect with Nico’s world.

“Your mother works unusual hours for an academic.”

My chest tightens as I spin around to find Nico standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. How long has he been there? How much did he hear? The way he watches me, that measured stillness, those dark eyes missing nothing, makes my skin prickle with awareness.

“Jesus,” I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest. “You could make some noise when you approach people.”

“Nah, that’s no fun.” His lips curve into that not-quite-smile I’m recognizing. He steps onto the balcony, his tread almost silent despite his Italian shoes. The dim lighting catches the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows that make him look even more dangerous than usual.

“Like I said, your mother works unusual hours for an academic,” he comments, voice laced with quiet interest.

My grip tightens on the phone as if I could somehow erase the conversation he clearly overheard. But there’s something in his tone that isn’t outright suspicion, just curiosity. Like he’s filing away another piece of information about me.

“End of term,” I say, aiming for casual. “Papers to grade, research deadlines. You know how it is.”

“Do I?” He moves closer, and suddenly the spacious balcony feels impossibly small.

“She works too hard,” I continue, desperate to sound normal. “Always has.”

He stops beside me at the balustrade. We stand close side by side, looking out at the glittering Chicago skyline. We could be any couple taking a break from the noise and crush of the gala.

Except we’re not a couple. And Nico Varela is not just any man.

“You’re concerned about her,” he observes, his eyes still fixed on the city lights. “That’s admirable. Family loyalty is increasingly rare these days.”

There’s something in his voice when he says “family.” A weight, a reverence almost—that catches my attention. I turn to study his profile, struck by how little I know about this man despite the many days I’ve spent in his orbit.

“Do you have a family?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Besides your uncle, I mean.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I sense a subtle shift in his posture, a slight tensing of his shoulders. “Family is complicated in my world,” he says after a moment. “Blood matters, but loyalty matters more.”

It’s not really an answer, but it feels like one of the few genuine things he’s said to me. I want to press further, to understand more about the man behind the constructed exterior, but the words die in my throat as his hand settles on my bare shoulder.

His touch is light, almost casual, but it shocks me. His fingertips trace the line of my collarbone with deliberate slowness, and heat pools low, spreading outward like fire. My breathing stutters, my body betraying me with a visceral response I can’t control.

“Cold?” he asks, though we both know that’s not why my skin suddenly feels too tight.

I should step away. I should remind him I’m here as a journalist, not as whatever this is becoming. I should remember my mother’s warning, still in my ears: His kind only see assets and liabilities. Nothing more.

Instead, I’m locked in place, my eyes meeting Nico’s as his fingers continue their leisurely exploration of my skin. The question I meant to ask about my mother’s warning remains trapped in my throat, drowned out by the insistent tempo of my racing heart beat.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate through me. “Red suits you.”

“You chose it,” I say, hating how breathless I sound.

His smile deepens, satisfaction clear in the curve of his lips. “True. I did. I picked this, because I knew how it would look against your skin.”

His fingers drift higher, brushing the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. I can’t suppress the small quiver that runs through me, and his eyes darken in response. He’s so close now that I can feel the heat from him.

“Why am I here, Nico?” I ask, trying to regain some control over the situation, over myself. “Really. Not the protection excuse. Not the story. Why did you bring me tonight?”

His hand moves to cup my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a gesture that’s becoming disturbingly routine. “Because I wanted to see you like this,” he says. “In my world. Wearing what I chose. On my arm.”

The honesty of it, the raw possessiveness, should repel me. Should make me recoil in feminist outrage. Instead, something dark and primal unfurls in my chest, responding to the claim in his words, in his touch.

“I’m not yours,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds unconvincing.

“Aren’t you?” His other hand slides around my waist, drawing me closer until our bodies are almost flush against each other. “For tonight, at least?”

My head tilts back to maintain eye contact, and in that slight movement, I feel a surrender I never expected. I’ve spent my entire adult life priding myself on my independence, my strength, my unwillingness to be swayed by any man’s charm or power. Yet here I am, melting under Nico Varela’s touch like I’m made of nothing more substantial than the silk of this dress.

“This is a bad idea,” I murmur, even as my hands come to rest on his chest.

“The best ones are,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It isn’t tentative. It’s claiming, pure and simple. His lips are firm and insistent, his hand at my waist pulling me hard against him. I should resist. I should push him away. I should remember who he is, what he’s done, the blood on his hands.

Instead, I kiss him back with a hunger that shocks me, my fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry, and I open to him without hesitation. He tastes of expensive whiskey and barely leashed power, the slight rasp of his stubble against my skin sending sparks across my nerves. I’m drowning in it. I’m drowning in him.

One of his hands slides into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. The other presses against the small of my back, holding me against him so close I can feel every hard plane of his body. A small sound escapes me, half moan, half surrender, and he responds with a growl that vibrates through my bones.

For a moment, the world beyond this balcony ceases to exist. There is only this. His mouth on mine, his hands possessing me, the thundering of my heart against my ribs. Right now, I am not Lea Song, an ambitious journalist. I am not the daughter of Professor Eunji Song. I am simply a woman in the arms of a dangerous man, consumed by a desire I never saw coming.

When he breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, pupils blown wide with desire. His thumb traces my lower lip, now swollen from his kiss.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he challenges. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

It would be so easy to lie. To claim this is just part of my investigation, that I’m playing along to gain his trust, to access his world. But the truth burns too hot to deny, even to myself.

“I can’t,” I admit, the words almost inaudible. “God help me, I can’t.”

Triumph flashes in his eyes; pure satisfaction mixed with something darker I can’t name. His hand tightens in my hair, not painful but assertive, controlling.

“Then stop fighting it,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Stop fighting me.”

Before I can respond, the sound of the French doors opening startles us both. We step apart, not quickly enough to hide what was happening, but enough to create the illusion of propriety. A waiter stands in the doorway, looking uncomfortable.

“Mr. Varela,” he says, his gaze fixed somewhere over our shoulders. “The auction is about to begin. Your table is ready.”

Nico nods dismissal, and the waiter retreats. When we’re alone again, Nico turns back to me, his composure restored while I’m still struggling to steady my breathing.

“We should rejoin the party,” he says. “Let’s continue this conversation later.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a promise or a threat. Perhaps both.

He offers his arm, every inch the polished gentleman again, as if he hadn’t just been devouring my mouth moments ago. As if my lipstick wasn’t now smudged across his lips, marking him as clearly as he’s marked me.

I take his arm, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my fingers. As we walk back toward the dazzling lights and music of the gala, I can’t shake the sensation that I’ve just crossed a line from which there’s no return. That with one kiss, I’ve sealed some fate I don’t fully understand.

But as Nico’s hand covers mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles, a gesture that feels possessive and intimate, I wonder if perhaps, just this once, my mother might be wrong.