Chapter 8
Julian stopped right in front of Altagracia. He gave a small, exaggerated bow, a gesture dripping with insincere courtesy.
"Altagracia," Julian said, his voice loud enough for the surrounding guests to hear. He extended his right hand toward her. "May I have this dance?"
The crowd around them fell silent. Whispers broke out like wildfire. Everyone remembered how Altagracia used to throw herself at Julian. They all assumed she would eagerly accept, grateful that he was finally giving her the attention she had begged for.
Altagracia stared at his outstretched hand. Her stomach churned with revulsion. She opened her mouth, ready to deliver a rejection so brutal it would strip the skin from his bones.
Before she could speak, the crowd behind Julian suddenly parted.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the clearing. The oppressive, heavy aura of Garrison Merrill suffocated the space around them.
Garrison walked right past Julian, completely ignoring his existence. He stopped inches away from Altagracia.
He pulled his left hand from his pocket. The overhead light caught the face of his Patek Philippe watch. He extended his hand toward her, palm up.
"Miss Blanchard," Garrison said, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet room. "Do I have the honor?"
The entire ballroom collectively gasped. The apex predator of Wall Street, a man who never engaged in trivial social rituals, was asking for a dance.
Julian's extended hand froze in mid-air. His face flushed a dark, angry red. He looked at Garrison, but Garrison didn't even spare him a glance. It was the ultimate insult-to be treated as if he simply didn't exist.
"Mr. Merrill," Julian started, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "I was just-"
Altagracia didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.
She turned her back slightly on Julian, raised her arm, and placed her lace-gloved hand firmly into Garrison's large palm.
Garrison's fingers immediately closed around hers. His grip was warm, strong, and entirely possessive.
He pulled her gently but firmly toward him. Altagracia stepped into his space. The scent of cedarwood and dark tobacco wrapped around her, making her breath hitch.
Julian stood there, his hand still awkwardly suspended in the air. He looked like a complete fool. The snickers from the crowd hit him like physical blows. He dropped his hand, his fingernails digging into his palms, and turned sharply, stalking away from the dance floor.
Garrison placed his right hand on the small of Altagracia's back. The heat of his palm burned through the silk of her dress.
He guided her to the center of the floor. The orchestra began to play a slow, sweeping waltz.
They began to move. Garrison was a flawless lead, his movements powerful and precise. Altagracia followed perfectly, her body reacting to his cues on instinct.
Garrison looked down at her, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.
"It seems I solved a little pest problem for you," he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest.
Altagracia tilted her head back, meeting his gaze without an ounce of intimidation.
"Mr. Merrill," she replied, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. "I have a feeling you're a much bigger problem than he ever was."
Garrison's hand tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. The physical contact sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine.
"Is it? he whispered.
The dance floor blurred around them. It was just the two of them, locked in a silent, high-stakes battle of wills.
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