Sinful Arrangement

SIX YEARS AGO

The rooftop of the Silex Innovations gala shimmered like a mirage against the New York skyline. Golden chandeliers hung beneath glass arches, violins played in the background, and champagne flowed like silk. Everyone was dressed to dazzle, to impress, to be seen. Well, except Amelia Hart, who clutched her tiny silver purse like a lifeline and tried not to trip over her borrowed heels.

"Remind me why I let Jane talk me into this?" she muttered, adjusting the neckline of her borrowed dress.

Jane laughed beside her, already tipsy, her glittering black gown hugging her body like a second skin. "Because you just finished med school, and I said you needed to celebrate. And Collin is hot and rich and very single."

Amelia's eyes slid to Collin, Jane's tech-whiz ex who now hovered near a group of coders, completely ignoring her. She sighed. "Yeah, real Prince Charming."

"Just drink and dance," Jane winked, disappearing into the crowd.

Left alone, Amelia moved toward the bar. She wasn’t here for networking or drama. She just wanted to breathe. To feel something other than exhaustion after years of sleepless nights and cramming anatomy textbooks. A flute of champagne found its way into her hand, and soon, the bubbles warmed her bloodstream.

Across the room, Frederick Blackwell stood like a shadow draped in tailored Armani, his tie slightly loosened, a glass of bourbon in his hand. He hated these events. He said they were filled with pointless handshakes and shallow smiles. But Silex was relevant to his empire, and even as they defected from Blackwell dealings, he needed to be seen.

Then he saw her.

She wasn’t like the others. She was trying not to be noticed, failing miserably. Her dress hugged curves with an innocence that made his mouth dry. Hair swept to the side. A necklace glinting faintly with a name.

He didn’t know her. But God, he wanted to.

When she turned and caught him staring, she didn’t blush or look away. She raised an eyebrow, half-daring him to approach. So he did.

"You look like you're trying to escape," he said, leaning casually beside her at the bar.

She smiled, soft and playful. "I was. Almost made it to the elevator."

"Let me guess. Not a fan of billion-dollar tech galas?"

"Only when they don't have snacks."

He laughed. A full, honest laugh that surprised them both. She liked the sound of it. Rich, low, unfiltered.

"So, who's the lucky man?" He asked teasingly.

"Who says there's a man?" She leaned over the bar and ordered two martinis.

Drinks turned into banter, banter into shared glances, shared glances into touches that lingered longer than polite society allowed. The city spun around them in velvet and gold. But it was nothing compared to the way he looked at her. As if she were a secret worth burning for. They walked slowly and talked about the city.

"Do you always look at strangers like that?" she asked.

"Only the unforgettable ones."

"What makes them unforgettable?" She leaned towards him obviously getting tipsy.

"Well.."

They kissed in the hallway outside the ballroom—soft at first, then hungrily. Her back hit the elevator wall as his hands skimmed her waist. They stumbled into a penthouse suite booked for someone far richer and far drunker, and the world narrowed to silk sheets, gasps, and her name whispered like prayer.

"You're drunk" he said, moving back from her.

"I'm pretty much stable." She lowered her voice. "I consent."

"How many fingers do I have up?" He rose one finger up.

"One. Index."

He chuckled, slow and deep. “You always this charming when you’re tipsy?”

“I’m not tipsy,” she lied. “I’m… moderately unstable.”

“Cute.”

“Annoying.”

His smile widened. He didn’t ask her name. She didn’t ask his. It was better that way. No expectations. No strings. Just two strangers in a city that never stopped moving.

By the time they got to the suite, her heels were off and she was giggling about the chandelier in the hallway. He opened the door, and the city lights spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the floor.

She kissed him first. Clumsy, hot, tasting of fruit and nerves. He held her face like it was something precious. She tangled her fingers in his shirt. They stumbled back against the edge of the bed, her laughter fading into soft gasps.

She was warm, all curves and heat, her dress sliding off her shoulders like a sigh. His hands memorized her skin, slow and reverent, as though the night might disappear if he moved too fast. She whispered something against his throat. He didn’t catch it, didn’t need to.

And when they came together, it was more than lust. It was a collision. A craving. A beginning.

The sun had barely risen when he reached for her and found only cool sheets. The pillow still held her scent. Her nameplate necklace was on the end of the bed. He groaned and stretched towards it.

"Amelia" he whispered as his fingers traced the necklace.