WHISPERS BENEATH THE SHEETS

The ballroom glitters like a diamond I can't afford. Chandeliers drip with crystals, champagne flows like liquid gold, and the air hums with the smug laughter of people who know they'll never have to check the price tag before buying.

And me? I'm the imposter in a borrowed dress and secondhand confidence.

I smooth the satin over my hips and force myself to keep my chin high, reminding myself I belong here. Not because of my last name, or because I was born into this endless parade of wealth, but because ambition has teeth and mine bites harder than anyone else's.

I repeat it like a mantra: I'm not here for pleasure. I'm here for the opportunity.

Still, my gaze flickers around the ballroom like a thief casing a mark. Glittering gowns. Cufflinks are worth more than my rent. A string quartet tucked neatly in the corner, bowing out an elegant waltz that feels like it belongs in a movie instead of real life.

I grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter to have something to do with my hands. The bubbles sting my nose. One sip, and I already regret it. Too sweet, too sharp. Like everything else in this room, it doesn't belong to me.

"Relax," I murmur to myself. "Smile, network, leave. That's the plan."

Easier said than done.

I step toward the bar, weaving between glittering couples, and that's when it happens.

One second, I'm avoiding eye contact with a man in a tuxedo who looks like he eats assistants for breakfast. Next, my shoulder slams into something solid. My glass wobbles. A splash of champagne leaps over the rim and hits my wrist.

"Oh God......sorry, I wasn't......."

I stop.

Because the man I've just crashed into isn't someone. He's an entire storm wrapped in a perfectly tailored black suit. Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. Dark hair brushed carelessly off a forehead that seems made for furrowed frowns and sinful thoughts.

And his eyes !! Dear God, his eyes are the kind of dangerous blue that makes you want to confess secrets you've never told anyone.

He steadies me with a hand on my elbow. Large, warm, firm. My pulse trips like it's forgotten how to beat.

"Careful," he says, voice low and smooth, like whiskey poured neat. "These floors are slippery when you're not watching where you're going."

Heat floods my cheeks. Embarrassment. Irritation. Something else I don't want to name.

"I said I'm sorry," I snap, pulling my arm free. "But maybe if you didn't stand in the middle of the walkway like a statue, people wouldn't "

My words die when his mouth curves. Not quite a smile. More like the devil considering a deal.

"Feisty," he says softly. "I like that."

I blink, caught between outrage and a very inconvenient flutter low in my stomach.

Who is this man?

Around us, the party hums on, oblivious. But in this little pocket of space, it feels like the air has thickened, turned