Chapter Six– Pretending Not To Recognise Her

“Elena’s POV”

The Plaza ballroom glittered like a jewel box, chandeliers spilling warm light across linen-draped tables and a low hum of expensive conversation. I stood beside my father, trying to match his stiff posture while executives settled around the table. Their polished laughter clinked like glassware.

A soft chime announced the door opening.

Adrian Blackwood strode back in, phone sliding into his jacket pocket with the easy confidence of someone who owned not just the room, but the building, the block, the city. His eyes moved over the gathering like a slow scan—cool, assessing—and slid right past me.

No flicker of recognition.

My pulse skipped. “He doesn’t remember.”

Relief should have been sweet. Instead, the air tightened, thick enough to choke.

Father leapt to his feet. “Mr. Blackwood, welcome back.”

Adrian inclined his head. “Shall we begin?”

---

The first toast was offered, crystal glasses lifted, champagne fizzing softly. Numbers followed—revenues, projections, licensing strategies—each spoken in the practiced cadence of boardroom warriors. Adrian’s voice stayed low, a velvet blade cutting through the chatter. I kept my eyes on the starched white tablecloth, praying he wouldn’t notice me.

“Miss Hart.”

That voice pinned me like a spotlight.

I jerked my head up. “Yes?”

“Your department oversees Hart Tech’s R & D division, doesn’t it?” His dark eyes caught mine across the table, unreadable.

Father cleared his throat. “Indeed. Elena coordinates several teams.”

Adrian leaned back, fingertips steepled. “Then tell me—how will you guarantee the prototype delivery in eight weeks, considering your supplier delays? Details. Not promises.”

Silence rippled through the table.

Father nudged my elbow. “Elena—”

I felt my cheeks heat. “We—uh—” My voice cracked.

“Focus. Breathe.”

I straightened. “We renegotiated last week. Production is moving to the Austin facility. I’ve secured a secondary vendor to cover any shortage. Even with a two-week slip, we’ll meet the launch window.”

Forks paused mid-air.

Adrian’s brow arched slightly. “Contingency cost?”

“Eight percent above standard,” I said, steadier now. “But early-release licensing is projected to recover twelve percent, net positive four.”

The CFO gave a quiet, impressed whistle. “Solid mitigation.”

Adrian’s gaze held me another long beat, then he nodded once. “Efficient. I like efficiency.”

Father exhaled, a sharp breath of relief. “Exactly what I told you—she’s thorough.”

Adrian only sipped his wine.

Dinner arrived: perfectly seared filet, artfully stacked vegetables, sauces painted like art. I tasted none of it. Every sense tunneled toward the weight of his presence.

I risked a glance. He was already watching me.

Not casually. Deliberate. Measured.

I fumbled my fork. My hand trembled. The wineglass tipped.

Red cascaded across my ivory dress in a sudden splash.

“Ah—” I jumped to my feet, napkin useless in my hand.

Father’s jaw tightened, but his smile stayed polite. “Accidents happen. Go, clean up.”

“Sorry,” I whispered, mortified.

The restroom door clicked shut behind me, blessedly muting the ballroom buzz. Cool marble. Soft lighting. I braced against the sink, heart hammering.

Water hissed from the tap as I splashed my face. The chill snapped against my skin.

His stare replayed—steady, unblinking.

His questions, precise, almost like a challenge.

“What is he doing?” I whispered to my reflection.

No answer, just my own wide eyes.

I dabbed at the crimson stain, the blotch fading to a dull rose. My pulse refused to slow.

The door creaked.

I turned—and collided with a broad chest.

Strong hands closed around my arms to steady me. Mint and cedar wrapped around me like a trap.

Adrian Blackwood.

My breath caught. “I—sorry—”

“Careful,” he said, voice a low rumble.

I stepped back, but his grip lingered an instant longer than necessary. When he released me, the absence of his touch felt loud.

“Mr., Blackwood” I managed, barely above a whisper.

His eyes searched mine, dark and intent. “Elena Hart,” he said slowly, as if rolling the name across his tongue. “You answer questions well.”

Heat surged under my skin. “Thank you,” I breathed.

He tilted his head, studying me. “But you avoid others.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The questions that matter,” he murmured, leaning just enough to shorten the space between us.

I grasped for composure. “I’m… not sure what you mean.”

One corner of his mouth curved—half amusement, half challenge. “A woman who can quote contingency costs from memory doesn’t stumble by accident.”

My pulse thudded. “Maybe I just—prepare.”

“Or maybe,” he said softly, “you’re hiding.”

Silence stretched, heavy and electric.

I swallowed. “Do you… need something?”

“Maybe,” he said again, the single word almost a tease.

His gaze didn’t waver, and the faintest smile ghosted his lips. For a heartbeat the restroom felt too small, the air charged.

Footsteps echoed outside. A burst of laughter from the hall. He finally stepped back, slow and deliberate.

“Your dress,” he said, eyes flicking to the faint stain. “Still visible.”

I looked down, flustered. “I—I know.”

“Good thing,” he added, “red suits you.”

Before I could reply, the door swung open and two women entered, their chatter breaking the spell. Adrian gave a polite nod and slipped out, leaving only the lingering scent of mint and cedar.

I gripped the sink, knees weak.

“What just happened?”