24

EZRA

God, I’m bored out of my mind.

Another handshake. Another laugh at a joke that isn’t even funny. Another pitch disguised as polite conversation. Another inhale accompanied by smells of too-strong perfumes.

I sip my champagne, not tasting a damn thing.

Someone’s talking to me about mergers. Someone else about stock options.

It’s a blur. A mind-numbing, soul-sucking blur.

Not that I even have one. Both the soul. And the mind.

The soul is natural. I've already lost mine.

And the mind, I'm losing it to her scent.

I nod at the right places. Smile when I have to.

Ezra Harrington: the perfect goddamn host.

The popular cake everyone wants a bite of.

If I had Thea beside me, it would’ve been bearable.

Even with her scent screwing with my head. Even with that sharp mouth of hers ready to slice into someone.

Actually, especially because of it.

I glance across the room for the fifth time in five minutes.

She's still there, sitting stiff like a stone. My eyes linger on her before I turn back to the men and women surrounding me.

“Ezra, have you considered having another branch in California?” some executive says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Already underway," I answer smoothly, my voice flat with disinterest.

I shift my weight, glancing sideways again.

She's still there.

“I heard you closed the Vance deal in under two weeks,” another voice pipes up, an older man with a sagging jaw and a handshake that had been too soft. “Impressive.”

“It was necessary,” I say, holding his gaze. “Vance was bleeding assets.”

They laugh, like it’s the cleverest thing they’ve ever heard.

I clench my jaw and force a smile.

My eyes dart to her again. She's scanning the crowd now. Can she see me?

“And I hope the growth of this branch of H&V will be more prominent now, considering the fact that your M.D is committed to you and the work.” a woman with sharp red nails leans in, voice syrupy.

I almost chuckle. “Seems like you are forgetting that everything I touch turns to gold and we are planning on expanding and diversifying.”

The words roll off my tongue.

Out of the corner of my eye, I scan the crowd again, but a figure blocks the view.

The woman giggles at something I didn’t hear. “We could always help with diversification,” she purrs, running a hand lightly down my arm.

I step back without thinking. “We have it covered.” I say, my voice polite but dripping with coldness.

Another laugh ripples through the circle.

God, they’re all sharks. Smiling. Waiting.

My collar feels too tight. My skin itches under my suit.

Thea should be here. She should be rolling her eyes at these idiots. Whispering something savage under her breath to make me smirk.

And I’m stuck here, pretending to give a damn.

“Mr. Harrington, maybe we can discuss potential partnerships over dinner sometime next week?” another man suggests, flashing a gleaming white smile as he approaches the circle.

“Send my office an email,” I say without blinking.

“But surely you can pencil us in now—”

“No.” My voice cuts sharper than intended. A few heads turn. I don’t care.

They recover quickly, chuckling like good little bootlickers, desperate to stay in favor.

I glance again at the space where Thea was sitting.

Cold coils in my chest.

Empty chair.

I frown.

Where the hell did she go?

“Excuse me.” I mutter.

I didn't wait for a reply before stepping away from the crowd.

I push through the circle of eager faces, cutting across the room without looking back. The music swells around me — some upbeat soul instrumental music that feels too loud, too bright, plays in the hall and the crowd on the dance floor thickens.

Laughter. Spilled champagne. Perfume and sweat.

I shoulder past them, moving fast.

When I reach the table, it's really empty.

No purse. No drink. No Thea.

I curse under my breath, jaw tight.

She can handle herself — of course she can — but unpredictability runs through her veins. For all I know, she could’ve walked out the damn door.

Her scent still lingers, soft and maddening, like she was just here.

I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated.

Or, did she go to the restroom? 

But no, she knows no one here. 

Then I lift my head, scanning the room, and—

I see her.

Dancing.

In another man’s arms.

I don't move.

I just watch.

Thea's body presses close to his.

Her arms loop loosely around his neck, her head tilted up, that smile — that damn smile — playing on her lips.

The man’s hand rests on her waist, a little too low for my liking.

Their hips move together to the slow, heavy instrumental beat.

Something inside me twists, ugly and hot.

I think about the past few days.

The way she’s been slipping under my skin.

The way her sharp mouth, her quick wit, the fire in her brown eyes... has started feeling like something I can't go a fucking hour without.

The line between business and something else — something raw, something dangerous — blurred before I even realized it. That everyday, it's a fucking battle trying to keep my hands and my fangs to myself.

And now?

Now, watching her in another man’s arms, it’s as if that line doesn't exist at all.

My jaw tightens.

I recognize him, blond hair — Nathan Elowen.

Of course it’s Nathan.

The heir to Elowen & Co.

The same spoiled little shit whose managing director walked into my office two weeks ago, practically falling out of her blouse under the excuse of a business meeting.

The same deal I was halfway to signing — out of respect for his old man — until this and the pathetic stunt his M.D. pulled.

“I'm going to torch the whole damn contract.” I growl, voice low.

And now he’s got his hands on her.

My Thea.

Shit.

No.

This is bad.

I stand there for another second — two — maybe three — every muscle in my body locked tight.

She's not mine.

No, I'm not supposed to think like this.

But then, I'm moving.

I can't stop myself.

I storm across the floor, barely seeing the people I shove past, my eyes locked on them.

On her.

On him.