Page 53 of The Colour of Revenge

"Nathaniel!" my mother's sharp and commanding voice rings out as she strides into the grand entrance hall.

I barely have time to turn before she pulls me into a firm, almost crushing hug. Her perfume—some floral concoction—engulfs me, making breathing difficult. "It's good to see you too, mother," I mutter, patting her back awkwardly.

Her attention shifts instantly, her eyes landing on Carina. A wide smile spreads across her face, genuine but just a little too polished, like everything about her. "And you must be Carina!" she exclaims, reaching out to clasp Carina's hands. "Ed—that's Nathaniel's father—mentioned he was bringing a date. My goodness, look at you. You're absolutely stunning!"

Carina's lips twitch into a polite smile. "Thank you. It's nice to meet you."

"Where's dad?" I look around; he's never that far from my mother at these things.

"Oh, he couldn't make it in the end. But, no matter."

"Hang on. I had to be here, but he skipped out?" I can’t stop the disgruntled tone of my voice—even if I tried.

"He had other business to attend to," my mother defends.

"It's his company!" My voice rises, and my mother cuts me a sharp look. I sigh, "Let's just get this over with." At least being here serves a real purpose: ticking another name off Carina's list.

Simon Gardner did keep his private life hidden. I had no idea of the shit he was into. The twisted fuck has an entire house dedicated to keeping his sex slaves. He likes setting up games and keeping them strictly controlled so that he can punish them for the slightest infraction.

It took a lot of digging to uncover that information. I would never have suspected him if Carina had never told me his name.

We follow behind my mother into the grand conference room setup for a fancy party.

Let the games begin.

Carina

The party is finally winding down, the once-bustling ballroom thinning to a manageable crowd. Soft music hums in the background, blending with the faint clinking of glasses and the murmur of fading conversation. My shoulders ache from hours of forced smiles and polite small talk, but relief settles over me as the night's tension slowly ebbs away.

Nate stands beside me, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. He hasn't left my side all evening—not even when his mother, Evelyn (as she insisted I call her), practically drags him toward the more influential guests. He'd humoured her with a charming smile but stayed close, leaning in whenever I spoke, his presence a quiet declaration.

Then I see him.

Simon.

Seeing him sends a sharp, burning heat through my veins—anger, dark and corrosive. I hate him. I hate how easily he laughs and looks comfortable, oblivious to the danger creeping toward him. I've watched him all evening, tracking every movement, waiting. And now, as the night dwindles, it's finally time for the fun to begin.

"You survived," Nate murmurs, his voice cutting through the fog of exhaustion and rage.

I glance up at him, lips quivering into a wry smile. "Barely. Is this what you do for fun? Talk to middle-aged men about mergers and stock portfolios?"

He chuckles, the sound low and intimate, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. "Not exactly my idea of a wild night, no. But you handled it like a pro. Even my mother is impressed."

"High praise," I tease, rolling my eyes. "She looked ready to throw me to the wolves when we arrived."

"She's like that with everyone," Nate says, his hand sliding from my back to my waist, drawing me a fraction closer. "But by the end of the night, she couldn't stop gushing about how 'perfect' you are."

I snort softly, shaking my head. "Perfect? Hardly."

Nate turns me to face him, the teasing glint in his eyes dimming into something heavier, something that makes my breath catch. "You're wrong," he murmurs, voice deep and deliberate. "You were incredible tonight. And not just with my mother or the endless parade of business blowhards. You walked into a room full of sharks and didn't let them see a hint of fear."

My throat tightens, emotions twisting beneath my skin. "You stayed with me the whole time," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "That helped."

"Because I wanted to." His fingers brush against mine, a fleeting touch that sends warmth curling in my stomach. Then, with a smirk, he threads his fingers through mine. "Come on. Let's get out of here. You're tired of pretending to care about these people."

A soft laugh escapes me. "You have no idea."

"We have revenge to enact anyway."