CHAPTER 5

FIONA ASHFORD POV

The emerald silk dress felt like a second skin, heavy and impossibly soft. It was backless, draping elegantly over my hips before pooling around my heels. Gideon had sent it to my room earlier that afternoon with a simple, handwritten note: Wear this tonight.

No explanation. Just an order.

Standing in front of the mirror, I realized he knew my exact measurements without ever having to ask. The thought sent a sudden, unbidden flush of heat up my neck. I was supposed to be attending the Mercer Foundation’s annual charity gala as his staff—to help catalog the private art pieces up for the silent auction. But this dress didn't say "assistant." It felt like a silent, public claim.

When we arrived at the grand estate where the gala was being held, the sheer scale of the event took my breath away. Crystal chandeliers hung from the soaring ceilings of the ballroom, reflecting off the diamond necklaces of the city’s elite. Classical music drifted through the air, mingling with the low hum of expensive chatter and the clinking of champagne flutes.

I kept my head down, clutching a tablet to my chest, trying to focus on the inventory list. But it was impossible to ignore the weight of Gideon's gaze on me.

He stood near the center of the room, surrounded by politicians and foreign investors. In a tailored black tuxedo, he looked effortlessly powerful, a king commanding his court. Every few minutes, his gray eyes would slowly sweep across the room, locking onto me for a heartbeat too long, tracing the exposed skin of my back before returning to his conversation. He was playing a dangerous game, and I was holding my breath, waiting for the trap to spring.

"Fiona?"

The slurred, sharp voice behind me made my stomach instantly turn to ice.

I spun around. Julian was standing there. He held a glass of scotch, his bow tie slightly crooked and his eyes bloodshot. The smug, golden-boy look he usually wore was replaced by something desperate and ugly.

"I knew it," Julian hissed, taking a step closer. His eyes traveled down my green dress, his jaw tightening. "I knew my uncle was hiding you. What did you do, Fiona? Did you slide into his bed the second I threw you out? Is that how you got him to pay off your legal fees?"

"Get away from me, Julian," I said, my voice low but trembling with pure anger. "You don't want to do this here."

"Oh, I think I do," he sneered, grabbing my wrist. His grip was tight, his fingers digging into my skin. "You're a thief, Fiona. You destroyed a ten-million-dollar masterpiece, and now you’re playing dress-up at a Mercer gala? I’m calling the police. Let's see how much my uncle cares about his new toy when the sirens get here."

"Let go of my arm," I warned, trying to pull away, but he only squeezed tighter, pulling me closer to his chest.

"Or what?" Julian whispered, his breath smelling of stale alcohol. "Who’s going to stop me? You're nothing."

Suddenly, the ambient noise of the ballroom seemed to die. A massive, dark shadow fell over us, blocking out the glittering lights of the chandeliers.

Before Julian could blink, a large, powerful hand clamped around my waist. With one smooth, effortless tug, I was pulled backward, my back flushing flat against a broad, solid chest. The scent of cedarwood, expensive whiskey, and rain hit me instantly, instantly calming the panic in my chest.

Gideon.

Julian’s eyes widened, his face draining of all color as he looked up at his uncle. His grip on my wrist vanished instantly, his hand dropping to his side as if he had just touched fire.

"Is there a problem here, Julian?" Gideon asked. His voice was a quiet, dangerous baritone that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"Uncle Gideon..." Julian stammered, his eyes darting between us. He looked terrified, but the alcohol in his system pushed him to speak. "She's a criminal. She's the one who ruined the gallery. Why are you protecting her? Why is she wearing that dress?"

Gideon didn't flinch. Instead, his grip on my waist tightened, his fingers pressing possessively into the silk of my dress, pulling me even closer to his side. He looked down at his nephew with a cold, utterly ruthless smirk.

"Watch your hands, Julian," Gideon said, his voice carrying a quiet threat that echoed in the small space between us. "She belongs to me now—both in the office, and in this house."

Julian took a sharp step back, his mouth opening in absolute shock.

Right on cue, a quiet gasp rippled through the nearby guests who had been pretending not to watch us. A second later, the bright, blinding flash of a reporter’s camera illuminated the dark corner of the ballroom, capturing Gideon’s hand firmly anchored to my waist.

Gideon didn't even glance at the camera. He kept his eyes locked on his pale, trembling nephew for one last agonizing second before gently turning me toward the private exit doors.

"Let's go home, Fiona," he said.