Chapter 5

Leon’s POV.

I came to witness my nephew’s marriage proposal, but somehow I ended up center stage. 

I became a scandal. 

And the instigator of it all, Scarlett, who walked away like she’d set fire to the world behind her and didn’t plan on looking back.

I watched her retreating silhouette, the cut of her dress swaying around long legs that didn’t hurry, didn’t falter. The sting of her departure lingered in the space she left behind, clinging like smoke to my skin.

It had been eight years. She seemed to have completely forgotten about me. 

Which then left me with the burning question; why the hell was she doing this?

Her actions were completely out of nowhere. Surely, they weren’t aimed at me.

A quiet shuffle sounded beside me.

“Why didn’t you tell her who you are?” came a voice, polite but edged with curiosity too persistent to ignore.

I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

My assistant, Ezra, stood exactly two steps to my right—precisely where he always positioned himself. Discreet. Unfailingly loyal. And just annoying enough to get away with that question.

“Mind your own damn business,” I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face.

Ezra didn’t blink. “Of course, sir.”

I adjusted the cuffs of my shirt, a habit that came with irritation I didn’t like admitting I felt. “Find out what happened to her,” I added after a beat. “The last few years. Everything.”

Ezra nodded, no trace of surprise in his expression. “Right away. Just a reminder—you have that meeting at Rouge tonight. Nine o’clock. A representative from the Kessler Group.”

I exhaled through my nose.

Kessler. Slippery bastards. But wealthy ones. The deal would be worth the effort. I nodded, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll be there.”

Later that evening, Rouge simmered with its usual clientele—high net worth egos hiding behind low lighting, laughter disguised as power plays, and smoke that drifted like secrets between leather booths and velvet curtains. I arrived alone, as always, stepping into the amber haze of the barroom with the kind of presence that made people turn without knowing why.

The Kessler rep—Levin, I think his name was—stood from his booth with a grin that showed way too much teeth. He wore a suit too tight across the chest and cologne too loud for the room. With him sat a man so flamboyantly overdressed he looked like he’d been plucked from a cabaret act and dropped directly into a negotiation table. Silk shirt half-unbuttoned, too many rings. Hair slicked and styled into something that defied natural law.

I didn’t need Ezra whispering in my ear to know what this was.

They thought I was gay.

Or worse—they thought seduction could sway me where numbers and leverage could not.

I slid into the booth, pretending not to notice, and entirely unbothered by the theatrical smirk the peacock across from me tossed in my direction. Levin made introductions, launched into company metrics, and talked numbers I already knew. I nodded when appropriate, gave nothing more than silence when I wanted them to wonder if I’d already made up my mind.

The man beside him—Jules, apparently—took every opportunity to touch. His hand brushed mine when I lifted my drink. His knee bumped mine beneath the table. His laugh was too breathy. His eyes too hungry.

I let it pass—once.

Twice.

Then, the third time, when his hand lingered on my wrist like it belonged there, I looked up, slowly, deliberately.

My eyes found his.

And the look I gave him—cold, unspoken, and unmistakably screaming; back the hell off—did what words couldn’t. He pulled back like he’d been burned.

Levin, sensing the shift, chuckled nervously and reached for his glass, raising it in some false show of camaraderie. “To new beginnings,” he exclaimed.

I reached for my own drink, the crystal cool against my palm. But before the rim touched my lips, a voice—low, feminine, unmistakably hers—cut through the air. “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”

I lowered my drink to slowly glance up at her and frown.

Scarlett.

Again.

She stood at the edge of our booth, framed by the low lights behind her, eyes locked on the glass in my hand.

Was she following me now? Or was this all just coincidence? It was hard to tell—considering how things played out earlier today.

Levin blinked, his expression hardening. “Excuse me,” he snapped. “This is a private negotiation. You have no right to interfere.”

Scarlett didn’t flinch. She slid closer, her gaze never leaving mine. “They drugged it,” she said matter-of-factually. “Some kind of love potion—or more likely, a stimulant. Something to lower inhibitions. Whichever—there is something in your drink that you didn’t ask for.”

Levin’s laugh was short, dismissive, tight around the edges. “That’s ridiculous.”

Jules, flustered now, waved a hand. “She’s clearly drunk—”

But I didn’t hear them.

I was still looking at her.

At the way her eyes—furious and alive—seemed to burn with something more than outrage. Concern, maybe. Possession. Something too complex to name. But it wasn’t for me, just her sense of kindness. 

I glanced at the drink. Even if it was drugged, I had nothing to fear.

I hadn’t touched a woman—or a man—in nearly a decade. They’d told me my nerves were damaged. My blood would never rush like it used to. I’d believed them. I still believed them.

I raised the glass.

Scarlett’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

I drank, then set the glass down with meaning. “Even if there’s something in it,” I spoke evenly, “it won’t affect me. I have no interest in sex.”

For a moment, silence held.

Then came the heat.

Not metaphorical, unfortunately.

Real.

It started in my gut—like a fire catching deep in my core, spreading in slow, molten waves. My skin prickled beneath the fine weave of my shirt. My collar felt too tight. My pulse picked up speed, pounding against my temples and wrists and lower.

No.

No, this wasn’t possible.

I reached for my tie, loosening it with fingers that trembled slightly.

Not from fear. From heat. From… something else.

“Out,” I growled, voice low and thick.

Levin Leaned back, grinning up smugly at Scarlett. It was apparent he assumed I was talking to Scarlett.

He thought wrong.                                             

“Levin. Jules. I said, get out. Now!” I smacked the glass from table. It shattered, wine and glass spilling like blood.

That got their attention.

They scrambled to stand, muttering apologies. Someone pushed Scarlett aside in the process. She staggered but caught herself on the booth’s edge.

They were gone within seconds.

My eyes flicked toward Scarlett, hoping she would leave on her own. I didn’t want to yell at her. 

However, the moment the door shut behind them, Scarlett moved closer. 

I was still seated, breathing through clenched teeth, trying to keep the room from spinning. Working hard to pretend I wasn’t burning alive from the inside out.

And then—I felt her hand.

Her fingers, gentle but deliberate, brushed against my shoulder—heat on heat. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over my cheek. “Who said the drug wouldn’t work on you just now?” she whispered, voice thick with amusement.

I turned my head to glare at her, but my vision swam. “Shut up,” I growled irritably.

My hands fumbled with the top buttons of my shirt, sweat slicking my skin beneath the fabric.

And then hers were there again—deft, teasing fingers sliding over mine.

“Need some help with that?” she asked, tilting her head, lashes fluttering like a weapon she knew how to wield.

I barely managed to choke out her name.

And that’s when she shifted even closer—her thigh brushing mine, then settling, warm and bold, across my leg.

She leaned in, lips nearly grazing my ear, her breath hot and sweet and devastating.

“Uncle Leon,” she purred, one brow arching slowly, “do you need… some help?”