Old money. Crystal chandeliers and drink that costs more than your rent for a year. The kind of night where names matter, and yours absolutely does not.

You weren’t invited, but that’s what makes it fun.

You slipped in through the catering entrance an hour ago, chin lifted, phone glued to your ear as if you were arguing about a merger. No one questions a woman who looks like she belongs.

Still, you’ve been careful. No last name. No lingering near photographers.

Until you meet him.

Emerson Silvano.

Head of Silvano Holdings. Tonight’s primary benefactor. Dark eyes, the kind of composure that makes security guards straighten instinctively.

He notices you, you don’t act impressed. Rather, bored.

You’re standing by the champagne tower, too drunk, examining it, when he steps beside you.

“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,”

You glance at him. “I’m trying to figure out if this is real champagne or just very expensive sparkling water.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. He’s not used to being answered like that.

“And who did you come with?” he asks.

You take a sip. “Myself.”

A lie. The truth would unravel everything.

He studies you longer than is polite. Longer than is safe.

Somehow, dangerously, you end up on the balcony with him when the orchestra shifts into something slow. The city sprawls below

“You’re not on the guest list,” he murmurs, Observing.

Your pulse spikes, but you keep your expression neutral. “You checked?”

“I own the list.”

Of course he does.

You step closer anyway. “Then maybe you should decide what to do about it.”

His hand settles at your waist

“You’re either very brave,” Emerson says quietly, “or very reckless.”

“Is there a difference?”

The air changes.

His gaze drops briefly to the back of your dress. Heat slides through you, not just attraction, but adrenaline. You could be escorted out at any moment. Blacklisted from every event in the city.

Instead, he leans closer.

“You have five minutes,” he says, voice lower now. “After that, security starts asking questions.”

Five minutes.

Your fingers curl into his lapel. “Then we shouldn’t waste them.”

The kiss isn’t careful. It’s charged, like striking a match in a room full of gasoline. You’re drunk.Too drunk.

For a moment, you forget that you’re hiding your identity. Forget that this entire night could implode with one wrong glance.

And then

The sharp click of a camera shutter.

You freeze.

Across the patio doors, a photographer stands hidden behind a pillar, lens trained directly on you.*

Not Emerson.

You.

And you’re drunk

Not falling over but reckless from too much champagne you definitely didn’t pay for. Your head is light, your pulse unsteady, and suddenly the world tilts in a way that isn’t fun anymore.

The shutter clicks again.

Reality crashes in.

You weren’t invited. You don’t exist in this world.

If that photo circulates—

Your stomach drops.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, panic slicing through the haze. “No. No, no—”

Your hand flies to your face on instinct, but it’s too late.

The camera lifts again.

And that’s when Emerson moves.

His jacket is off his shoulders in one fluid motion. Before you even register it he’s stepped in front of you. The jacket wraps around you as he pulls you against his chest, turning your face into him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. “Look at me. Not at them.”

Another shutter

now the only thing visible is his back. His hand cradles the back of your head, shielding you completely

Your fingers clutch at his shirt.

“I can’t be photographed,” you say, voice thinner than you intended. “I can’t— I don’t want—”

“I know.”

There’s no teasing now

To anyone watching, it looks intimate. Intentional.

Not damage control.

He lifts his chin toward the photographer

“That’s enough.”

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

The photographer hesitates — then lowers the camera