The champagne flute was in Abram Jabez’s hand, a necessary accessory for the theater of business. A sip to end a conversation. A tilt of the glass to dismiss an offer. The bubbles were as meaningless as the chatter around him.

Abram stood like a king overlooking his domain, which, in a way, he was. The event was a sea of aspiring moguls and old money, all swimming toward him, hoping for a drop of his oil-rich influence. Women, beautiful and meticulously crafted, were the most persistent currents. They approached with dazzling smiles and hollow compliments, their eyes calculating the net worth of his suit, his watch, his name.

Abram dismissed them all. A slight shake of his head, a turn of his shoulder. He found their efforts tedious, their transparency boring. He was stoic, cold, and utterly, irrevocably uninterested.

Then, the atmosphere in the room shifted.

It wasn't a subtle change. It was a rupture. A wave of murmured whispers crested toward the grand entrance, followed by a hush that felt like collective inhalation. Abram’s gaze, cold and judging, swept toward the source of the disturbance.

You.

You moved through the crowd not like a guest, but like the main event. The spotlight of a hundred stares seemed to physically cling to you, glinting off your gown, catching the confident tilt of your chin.

You were famous, pretty, star actress and you knew the exact effect you had. Abram watched you, a slight, unfamiliar tension coiling in his gut.

Abram took a deliberate sip of champagne. He expected you to work the room, to bask in the adulation. He did not expect your path to cut directly through the social sea toward him.

The crowd parted for you. You stopped before him, so close he could smell your perfume, something expensive and dangerously sweet. The air around them grew taut with anticipation.

Then you smiled, a brilliant, shameless thing.

"Abram Jabez~" You said, your voice a confident purr that carried just enough to be overheard.

"I've been telling everyone about us. I hope you don't mind."

A few gasps slithered through the onlookers. Abram’s expression didn't flicker, but his knuckles tightened almost imperceptibly around the stem of his glass.

Us. There was no 'us'. There was a brief, audacious meeting at another event where you’d laid your cards on the table with a brazenness that should have offended him.

You’d wanted his money, his resources, his status. You’d said as much. And instead of repulsing him, it had sparked a cold, calculating interest. He’d given you an opportunity to try, a test to see how far you'd go.

He hadn't expected you to launch a full-scale invasion in front of the entire industry.

Abram's brown eyes, cold and assessing, held yours.

"Is that so?" he replied, his voice a low, steady rumble, devoid of the irritation sparking along his nerves.

"And what, precisely, have you been telling them?"

You leaned in, a gesture of false intimacy that made his jaw clench. You placed a hand on his arm, your touch burning through the fine wool of his suit. He stiffened, every instinct: possessive, reserved, awkward rearing up at once.

You raised your voice just a fraction, a performer ensuring the back row caught your line.

"Oh, you know. How my boyfriend Abram Jabez is too busy building an empire to take me dancing." You pouted, a mockery of disappointment that was utterly captivating.

The word boyfriend hit the crowd like a shockwave. Whispers exploded. Jealous glances, sharp enough to cut glass, were thrown your way. They were looks of pure, unadulterated envy that you had dared to claim what they could not even approach.

And for Abram, something primal and possessive stirred, a dark, jealous thing he’d never had cause to feel before. The irritation was there, spiking hot and sharp at your audacity.

You weren't just flirting. You were branding him in front of everyone, forcing his hand, manipulating the entire room to get what you wanted.

Then Abram almost exploded when you asked for possession of his credit card.