Chapter 3: Empire of One

Seraphina’s POV

The elevator to Aurelius Kingsley’s penthouse is the kind of luxury that makes you question everything you thought you knew about wealth. Italian marble floors, crystal fixtures, and a control panel that requires a special key card just to access the top three floors. As the numbers climb—45, 46, 47—my phone rings incessantly with notifications I’m trying to ignore.

Zara: Girl, the blogs are going CRAZY. “Mystery Woman Spotted Entering Kingsley Tower.” You better call me after this meeting!

Emma (my assistant): Three new clients called after seeing the photos. The Henderson anniversary party wants to triple their budget. Your phone hasn’t stopped ringing.

Unknown number: Is it true you’re dating Aurelius Kingsley? I’ll pay $10k for an exclusive interview.

I silence my phone and catch my reflection in the mirrored elevator walls. Professional but not trying too hard—black wrap dress, modest neckline, hair in a sleek low bun. The same armour I’ve perfected over three years of building Enchanted Moments from a dream into the most sought-after event planning company in the tri-state area.

Success masking pain—that’s what Dr. Maya called it during our last session. The way I throw myself into creating perfect moments for other people so I don’t have to examine the chaos in my own life.

But standing here, about to walk into the private domain of a man who somehow saw through my defenses in under ten minutes, I wonder if my armor is about to be tested in ways I’m not prepared for.

The elevator stops at the 48th floor, and the doors open directly into his penthouse.

“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, then immediately cover my mouth. Professional, Seraphina. This is business.

But it’s impossible to maintain professional detachment when you’re standing in what looks like a modern palace. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Manhattan that makes you feel like you’re floating above the city. The décor is highly sophisticated without being cold, rich navy and gold accents, original artwork that probably costs more than most people’s houses, and furniture that screams premium and comfort in equal measure.

“Seraphina.”

I turn toward the voice and find Aurelius walking toward me from what appears to be a home office. He’s traded yesterday’s wedding attire for dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, looking less like a billionaire CEO and more like…

“Mr. Kingsley,” I say, extending my hand for a professional handshake.

He takes it, but instead of the brief, businesslike contact I expected, his fingers linger against mine. Warm, strong, completely confident.

“Please, can I get you something to drink? Coffee, wine, water?”

“Water would be perfect.” I need to stay sharp, and something tells me this meeting could be intoxicating enough without adding alcohol to the mix.

He guides me to a seating area near the windows, and I can’t help but notice the way he moves, purposeful but unhurried, like someone who’s never had to rush because the world waits for him As he pours water from a crystal pitcher into two glasses, I study the space more carefully.

There are personal touches scattered throughout the obvious wealth. A worn leather journal on the coffee table. A framed photo of a young woman with Aurelius’s eyes and a radiant smile. Books—actual physical books—lining built-in shelves. This isn’t just a showpiece apartment; someone actually lives here.

“Your home is beautiful,” I say, accepting the water glass. “Did you design it yourself?”

“With help.” He settles into the chair across from me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and understated. “I wanted it to feel like a sanctuary, not a museum.”

Sanctuary. The word choice is interesting, implying he needs refuge from something. But from what? He’s Aurelius Kingsley. What could one of the most powerful men in America possibly need protection from?

“Speaking of sanctuaries,” he continues, his dark eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to fidget, “I saw the social media coverage. Are you okay with the attention?”

I nearly laugh. “Okay with it? Mr. Kingsley Aurelius, I went from complete anonymity to trending on I*******m in twelve hours. My assistant fielded seventeen interview requests this morning, and there’s a photographer camped outside my apartment building.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

“What was your intention?” The question comes out sharper than I planned, but I need to know. “Yesterday you approached me at someone else’s wedding with a job offer. Today I’m gossiping blog fodder. Either you’re incredibly naive about how the media works, or this was calculated.”

Instead of getting defensive, he nods approvingly. “Good. I was hoping you’d be direct.”

“Excuse me?”

“Most people tiptoe around me. They tell me what they think I want to hear, especially when they want something from me.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and suddenly the carefully maintained distance between us feels smaller. “You’re asking the hard questions. That tells me you’re not easily intimidated.”

“Should I be intimidated?”

His smile is slow, devastating, and completely without arrogance.

“By my net worth? My reputation? No. By the way I’m already thinking about you when I should be focusing on quarterly projections? Probably.”

The admission stuns me into silence. Not because it’s inappropriate, though it definitely crosses the line from business into personal—but because of how it makes me feel. Seen. Wanted. Worth pursuing.

Dangerous, dangerous territory.

“That’s… quite an admission for a business meeting,” I manage.

“Is that what this is? A business meeting?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Maybe it started that way.” He stands and walks to the window, hands in his pockets.

I stand up, needing to move, needing distance, needing to remember why I’m here. “I came to discuss your gala.”

“And we will. But first, I need you to understand something.” He moves closer, not crowding me but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “What I told you on the phone last night—about recognizing armour? I meant it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice is gentle but implacable. “Someone hurt you. Badly. And you’ve spent years building walls to make sure it never happens again.”

The accuracy of his assessment steals my breath. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you create fairy tale moments for other people while looking like you’ve stopped believing in them yourself. I know that when I mentioned respect and boundaries yesterday, something in your eyes changed. And I know that whatever happened to you is connected to why my foundation’s mission matters to you.”

How does he see so much? How does he know?

“Maybe I just understand that not everyone gets a happy ending,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself in an unconscious gesture of self-protection.

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve convinced yourself that you don’t deserve one.”

The words land like a punch to my stomach. You don’t deserve one. It’s exactly what Marcus’s voice whispers in my head during the darkest moments, when I wonder if my standards are too high, if I’m too damaged, if I’m destined to die alone because I won’t compromise my values.

“That’s not—” I start, then stop.

“Hey.” Aurelius’s voice is soft, concerned. “Where did you just go?”

I realize I’m trembling slightly, lost in memories I thought I’d processed and moved past. “I should go. This was a mistake.”

“Seraphina, wait.” He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t try to physically stop me, but something in his voice makes me pause. “I’m sorry. I pushed too hard, too fast.”

He moves to his desk and picks up a thick folder, bringing it back to where I’m standing. “This is everything about the gala. The venue, the guest list, the budget, the timeline. It’s the biggest event my foundation has ever hosted, and it’s going to take everything you have to pull it off.”

I take the folder with shaking hands, immediately recognizing the weight of opportunity it represents. “Why me? You could hire any event planner in the country.”

“Because you understand what we’re fighting for. Because you create magic even when you don’t believe in it. And because…” He pauses, seeming to weigh his words carefully. “Because I have a feeling that working together might help us both remember what we’re worth.”

What we’re worth.

I open the folder and gasp. The budget alone is more than I’ve made in the past two years combined. The guest list reads like a who’s who of American power brokers. The scope is beyond anything I’ve ever attempted.

“This is…” I breathe.

“Overwhelming? Impossible? Too big?”

“Perfect.”

“There’s one condition,” Aurelius says.

Of course there is. “What?”

“We work together. Closely. I’m not just writing you a check and walking away. This gala matters too much to me.”

“How closely?”

“Daily meetings. Site visits. Decision-making sessions. You’ll probably see more of me in the next six weeks than my board of directors does.”

The thought should terrify me. Six weeks of regular contact with a man who already sees too much.

Instead, it thrills me.

“Such as?”

“I don’t compromise my standards for anyone, and I keep things professional no matter how wealthy they might be.”

“Good,” he says simply. “Neither do I.”

“When someone you care about gets hurt because you didn’t take love seriously enough, it changes your perspective on what matters.”

Someone you care about. The same phrase from the article about his foundation.

“What happened five years ago?” I ask.

For a moment, pain flickers across his features, raw, unguarded, still fresh despite the years that have passed.

“That’s a story for another day,” he says quietly. “When you trust me enough to tell me yours.”

My phone lights up with another text from Zara: It’s been two hours. If you don’t call me in the next thirty minutes, I’m calling the police.

“I should go,” I say. Every part of me wants to ask more questions about this complicated man.

“Take the folder. Look through everything. If you decide to take the job, call me tomorrow.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll respect your decision and find someone else.” He pauses. “But I hope you don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I think we could create something extraordinary together. And because…” He hesitates, then seems to decide something. “Because you looked at me yesterday like I was just a man, not a bank account. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Just a man.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise.

“Seraphina?” His voice stops me at the elevator. “Whatever that voice in your head is telling you that you’re not worth waiting for, that you’re too much work, that you should settle for less, it’s lying.”

The elevator doors close before I can respond, but his words echo in my mind all the way down to street level.

Worth waiting for.

As I walk past the photographer still lurking outside the building, dodging his questions and camera flashes, I realize that for the first time in three years, I’m not thinking about Marcus or Kevin or any of the other men who made me feel like my standards were character flaws.

I’m thinking about Aurelius Kingsley.

My phone rings as I climb into my Uber. Zara, of course.

“Girl, you better start talking right now, or I’m staging an intervention.”

“I think I have just secured the biggest client.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’ll explain everything when I get home,” I promise.

Aurelius Kingsley wasn’t what I expected.

And that unsettles me more than it should have.