Chapter Three – The Charity Circus

SOFIA

Charity events are basically costume parties for rich people, only instead of masks, everyone wears their most convincing ‘I care’ smile. Until the cameras turn off, that is.

If life had a ‘skip intro button’, I'd be pounding it right now. But it doesn't.

Instead, I’m standing in front of my mirror, wearing a dress I can’t afford and trying to tame my hair into something other than a feral raccoon after a thunderstorm. My mother would call it “putting myself together.” I call it “slowly surrendering my dignity to a zipper.

Why am I doing this? Because apparently, when your family’s circling the financial drain, the best thing you can do is show up at a charity gala and smile like you’re not wearing shoes that feel like medieval torture devices.

I don’t belong here.

But try telling that to my mother. According to her, tonight was “important.” The kind of vague, loaded word parents use when they’re about to ruin your evening.

So here I am, stuffed into a gown that cost more than my rent, trying not to trip over a carpet so plush it feels like walking on the belly of a very expensive cat. The ballroom glitters with chandeliers, champagne flows like it’s tap water, and somewhere in the corner, a string quartet is trying their damnedest to make “Canon in D” sound fresh.

Which it doesn't.

I weave through clusters of people discussing hedge funds and vacation homes like normal humans discuss weather. Every other sentence is “quarterly returns” or “we summer in Tuscany.” I’m one breadth away from stabbing myself with a cocktail toothpick just to feel something.

“Smile, darling,” Mom hisses at me when I roll my eyes one too many times. Her hand clamps onto my elbow like I’m a runaway balloon. “There are important people here.”

Important. There’s that word again.

Dad is already scanning the room for anyone with deep pockets and a forgiving heart.

Me? I'm calculating the fastest route to the open bar.

I plaster on something vaguely resembling a smile and pretend to care while Dad shakes hands like he’s campaigning for office. He’s more relaxed tonight than he was over the spreadsheets this morning, but I can see the stiffness in his shoulders. Every laugh is a little too loud, every gesture a little too sharp.

Then something shifts.

It’s not dramatic and there's no drumroll, but I feel it. Like the room collectively tilted toward a single point. Conversations stutter and heads turn.

My curiosity wins, and I glance over my shoulder.

That’s when I see him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of presence that doesn’t just enter a room, it rearranges it. His suit fits like it was poured onto him, every line sharp enough to cut glass. People angle themselves toward him without even realizing it, orbiting like he’s their personal sun.

I don’t know his name. I don’t need to. You can tell when someone matters in a room like this, and he clearly does.

And those eyes. Cold and calculating. It's the kind of gaze that makes you stand up straighter without meaning to.

I should look away, but my brain is apparently suicidal because I keep staring. There’s nothing friendly about him, nothing soft, and yet… he’s magnetic in a way that makes my chest tighten and my mouth go dry.

“Sofia,” Mom whispers, nudging me so hard I nearly drop my champagne flute. “Behave yourself. That’s Adrian Vale.”

Oh.

The name hits me like a punch.

Rumors about ruthless deals and that stupid dream where he just stood there like an overdressed debt collector.

Now he’s real. Very real. And walking this way.

“Adrian,” Dad says smoothly, like the two of them are old friends instead of… whatever they really are. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Sofia.”

And just like that, Adrian Vale’s gaze cuts to me. Sharp, direct and unforgiving. I didn't want to be here before, but right now? I really really don't want to be anywhere around him.

It’s like standing in front of a firing squad, only I’m not sure if the bullets are insults, indifference, or something worse.

I tighten my grip on the glass and summon my most reliable weapon: sarcasm.

“Hi,” I say, my smile tilted, my voice pitched just enough to hide the fact that my stomach is currently attempting gymnastics. “Relax, I'm not one of the people trying to impress you tonight .”

For the first time, something flickers in his eyes. Not amusement. Not annoyance. Just… interest.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me, like I’m an equation he’s already solved but wants to see if I’ll notice the answer.

The silence stretches until it’s heavy enough to press against my skin, and I have the sudden, ridiculous urge to fidget. I don’t. If he wants me uncomfortable, he’ll have to work harder.

Finally, his mouth curves—not a smile, not even close, but something sharper.

“Good,” he says, voice smooth and cold. “I don’t tolerate wasted effort.”

My pulse skips, though I refuse to show it. Everyone else might bow and scrape for his approval, but I’ll be damned if I let Adrian Vale know he makes my stomach twist.

So I tip my glass toward him instead, like I’m toasting to a private joke only I understand.

“Then we’ll get along just fine,” I say.