Whatever Claire said on that call wasn't good. I was just hoping he wouldn't say that we were going to visit the cemetery this time.

The artist I’d seen, the sad, lonely man in the library? Gone. Vanished. And the cold blooded, arrogant and annoying lawyer was back, his face looked like he had just swallowed stone. I had to look away and stare at the bare walls. He slowly picked up a document and pushed it under another, arranging his already perfect, sparkly table.

“What next?” I asked. “What is all the about?”

My voice sounded tiny in this huge room. I was still burning with humiliation from him catching me, but my stupid curiosity always wins.

His eyes, those piercing blue things, snapped to me. For just a second, I saw this flash of pure annoyance. Like I was a gnat buzzing around his head. "A change of plans. We have an engagement."

"An engagement?” I shireked. “You said it was a fundraiser gala.”

“Change of plans.”

“Why didn't mention it?” I said, a little pissed off.

“So I'm supposed to do a newspaper publication for it?” He asked and I rolled my eyes. “It's an invitation and we are not turning it down.” He said leaving zero room for argument.

I snorted

"It was a summons. From an old, private club. The Crimson Veil."

“Crimson Veil?” I asked.

I had never heard the name before and the way he said it made me freeze. As a star agent, I had gone to various parties, red carpets with the actors and actresses I know but this one sounds so harsh and ominous.

There was something in his voice when he said the name. Respect? Fear? I couldn't even tell.

But if it was fear then it was bigger than him because the Joachim Knight I know fears nothing.

“A summons?” I asked. “What's that? A 17th century party to honour our ancestors? What kind of club?”

The way he looked at me, I sure knew he was already regretting knowing me. He walked gracefully to the giant window, staring down at the city, his hands clasped behind him, his back was to me.

“It is where the oldest families, the real power in this city, the founding fathers of New York, they all meet there.”.

“Wow, we gonna party hard.” I laughed.

“ It's not a party, Yvette. It's a battlefield. Every word is a weapon, every smile is a threat. The people there they're predators."

To say I was confused was an understatement. This guy was blowing my brains.

He turned his head slowly just enough for his blue eyes to pin me. “You mustn't leave my side tonight.

You don't wander. You don't speak unless I speak to you first. You do exactly as I say. Understood?"

The command was absolute. His voice was this low, dangerous rumble that felt real. My heart started doing this nervous little drum solo against my ribs. So this wasn't some boring corporate gala. This was something else. This was dangerous. This was his world.

"What am I supposed to wear to a battlefield?" I tried for sarcasm, but it came out shaky and weak. I hated that.

"Appropriate attire has been provided," he said, not even looking at me. "Go. Get ready. One hour."

Appropriate attire has been provided. Of course it has. Just another way to remind me I'm his pawn, his doll to be dressed up for a part he's already written for me.

“I'm hungry,” I blurted out and his brows furrowed, he was expecting me to ask questions. “Why is the fridge empty, no kitchen staff, who —”

“Meredith, my French chef is in the kitchen.” He cut me off coldly. “Make yourself comfortable.”

That was it. Cold and commanding. He didn't even ask if I was lactose intolerant. I stomped back to my suite to pick something for the battlefield like he said. I swung the closet doors and mu eyes swam across the rows of fancy dresses.

It was a sea of elegant, beautiful, and utterly predictable gowns. Black, navy, charcoal, silver. The uniform of a billionaire's girlfriend. God, I was so sick of being managed. My fingers brushed over the fabrics, this hot resentment bubbling up in me. I'm not some quiet, respectable accessory. I'm fire. I'm trouble personified.

Nothing suit the battlefield taste, I was about shutting the door when I saw it, tucked at the very end of the rack.

A dress that did not belong.

It was red.

The richest, deepest red silk I had ever seen. The color of blood, of spilled wine. The cut was simple, almost modest—high neck, long sleeves, floor-length—but the color, the color was a scream. It was bold. It was dangerous. It was a dare.

Oh, yeah. It was perfect.

An hour later, I wasn't just ready. I was armed. I let my hair go wild, loose waves falling over one shoulder. Seems Joachim knows that the only thing I'm good in is using brown powder because two women waltz into my room.

“Sit,” the older one commanded and in minutes I was transformed. I looked in the mirror and I didn't see Yvette, I didn't see The Woodsman, I didn't see the broke girl from Queens. I saw someone different, gorgeous.

I took a deep breath and the first attempt st walking in those heels sent me crashing down. I managed though and he was just right where I left him, by the window side, swirling a glass of something dark red. He turned lazily when he heard the sound of my heels.

And Joachim Knight froze.

The glass in his hand trembled slightly, and for one insane second, I wondered if it was because of me—or because the scent of his cologne mingled with mine, heat and danger colliding in the space between us.

He was devouring me. The CEO vanished, and in his place was something ancient, primal, and possessive. Time seemed to slow and then he returned his gaze to it's previous place — the city below and sipped from that glass like he didn't see me.

“I'm ready.” I said smiling.

He turned to me, but his face held boredom and something hard. “What are you doing?” His voice was low and condescending.

I shrugged. “Getting ready. Why?”

"That is not appropriate attire," he bit out, his eyes raking over me, from my lips down to the way the silk clung to my body. "Find another colour. Not red. Red is for a declaration."

I lifted my chin. "And what am I declaring?"

He walked towards me like he was the god of war or something and his eyes pinned me. The energy around us crackled.

"Red and black is prohibited. You can wear any other color.”

“Why?”

“You are declaring that you are a target. In that dress, in that place, you are trying to start a war, Yvette."

That fragrance wrapped around me again, dark leather and something forbidden. It wasn’t just expensive—it was him. And God help me, I wanted to breathe it in even as I braced for the storm.

He was furious, I could see it. A deep, simmering rage. But under it was something else. Something that looked a whole lot like hunger. His eyes burned into mine.

A challenge hung there in the air between us. “Maybe I am.” I said my voice a soft whisper.

He held my gaze for a second and then he snapped his fingers and Mrs Albright metaphorsed from God knows where.

“Get her the blue gown.”