5

EVERLY’S POV

The fitting was scheduled for 6:00 AM.

I didn't expect Steve Sterling to be there. I expected a team of silent, efficient tailors. But when I stepped into the dressing suite of the Chandler Estate, Steve was already there, leaning against a mahogany wardrobe with a cup of black coffee in his hand. He looked like he hadn't slept, yet he radiated a terrifyingly calm energy.

"You’re three minutes late," he said, his gray eyes tracking me from the doorway to the center of the room.

"I’m the one paying for the dress, Steve. I can be as late as I want," I replied, shedding my silk robe to reveal the simple slip underneath.

I expected him to look away. He didn't. He watched with the clinical detachment of a man inspecting a weapon.

"You’re not paying for this one," he said, nodding toward the mannequin in the center of the room.

The dress was a masterpiece of architectural malice. It was black—so deep it seemed to swallow the light—with a structured bodice that looked like armor and a slit that reached dangerously high. It wasn't the dress of a debutante; it was the dress of a woman who intended to start a war.

"I told you," Steve said, stepping closer. "I don't like the cream you were wearing. It made you look like someone who wanted to be forgiven. This... this makes you look like someone who has already passed judgment."

The tailors moved in, their hands fluttering over the fabric, but I barely felt them. My entire focus was on Steve. He stood just inches away, his presence a heavy, suffocating weight.

"Why are you doing this, Steve?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper as a tailor pinned the waist. "You could have just taken the Chandler votes and stayed in the shadows. Why put yourself on the front lines with me?"

Steve reached out, his hand stopping the tailor's movement. He took the pin from the woman’s hand and knelt in front of me to adjust the hem himself. It was a gesture of startling intimacy, his head just inches from my waist.

"Because Spencer Knox thinks he's a king," Steve said, his voice a low vibration against my skin. "And there is nothing I enjoy more than watching a man realize he’s actually a jester."

He looked up, his face inches from mine. For the first time, the "cool" facade wasn't just a mask; it was a challenge. "And because I want to see if you have the stomach for it, Everly. It’s easy to send trash bags to an office. It’s harder to look a man in the eye while you strip him of everything he loves."

"I have the stomach for it," I snapped, my heart racing.

"We'll see." Steve stood up, his height towering over me again. He didn't smile, but there was a flicker of something—respect, or perhaps a darker kind of interest—in his gaze. "The Sterlings are hosting a private dinner tonight. Spencer and Hailey will be there, begging my father to finalize the merger before the Gala. I want you there."

"As your guest?"

"As my partner," he corrected. "Spencer thinks he knows your limits. He thinks you're the girl who cries in the rain. I want him to see you standing in his family’s house, holding the power he can never touch."

He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear—the same gesture as before, but this time, his fingers lingered against my skin for a second longer than necessary. The coldness was still there, but beneath it, there was a spark of something lethal.

"Six o'clock tonight," Steve said, turning to leave. "The car will be waiting. Don't be late again, Everly. I have a very short fuse for people who waste my time."

Later that evening, the SUV pulled up to the Sterling Estate—a sprawling, neo-classical nightmare that screamed of old money and hidden sins.

As I stepped out, Steve was waiting at the base of the stairs. He looked devastating in a dark suit, his silhouette sharp against the evening sky. He offered me his arm, and as I took it, I felt the raw power radiating from him.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice low.

"I've been ready for three years," I replied.

We walked into the grand dining room just as the appetizers were being served. The room was filled with the Sterling inner circle—and there, at the center of the table, sat Spencer and Hailey.

Spencer was mid-sentence, laughing at something Hailey’s father had said, his face flushed with the false confidence of a man who thought he’d found a loophole.

Then, he saw us.

The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer’s glass hit the table with a dull thud, red wine splashing onto the white cloth like a bloodstain. Hailey’s jaw dropped, her eyes bulging as she looked from me to her brother.

"Steve?" Hailey stammered, her voice cracking. "What... what are you doing here? And why are you with her?"

Steve didn't even look at his sister. He looked straight at Spencer, a cold, predatory smile playing on his lips.

"Good evening, Spencer," Steve said, his voice echoing in the silent room. "I heard you were looking for an investor to save your little Gala. I brought someone who might be interested in... acquisitions."

I stepped forward, the black dress shimmering like oil on water. I looked at Spencer—really looked at him—and realized for the first time how small he was.

"Hello, Spencer," I said, my voice smooth and lethal. "I believe you left something at the Meridian last night. I came to return it."

I reached into my clutch and pulled out the rusted key to the shack. I tossed it onto the table, where it landed right in the middle of Spencer’s dinner plate.

"The shack is officially condemned," I said, my smile widening as I saw the panic in his eyes. "Just like your merger."