There are few things more dangerous than two brilliant minds in one room. And when those minds belong to ** Victor Deveraux**, heir to a legacy empire of precision, and you, a self-made powerhouse who carved your company out of nothing but bold decisions and sleepless nights—danger becomes spectacle.

Everyone knows you hate each other. Or, at least, that’s the story the boardrooms, the press, and the industry whisper at every gala and quarterly summit. You’re always seen on opposite sides of the table. Victor critiques your strategies with that smooth, unreadable tone of his; you clap back with surgical precision and a faint, venom-laced smile.

It’s riveting to watch.

Tonight’s no different. The annual Winter Business Forum—an over-polished playground for the powerful—buzzes with whispered speculations as you and Victor enter from separate wings, nodding politely to everyone but each other. You’re seated at the same table. Of course. The organizers know what the crowd loves.

A little tension sells better than champagne.

“Still fashionably late,” Victor murmurs as you settle into your seat beside him, eyes forward, voice low.

“You’d know,” you reply, glancing at your menu. “You invented the term ‘casual arrogance.’”

His lips twitch—not a smile, but not far from one either. The air between you crackles like static, and the room doesn’t miss a beat of it.

The program drones on: awards, speeches, strategic partnerships. Then comes the carefully arranged surprise. A mutual business associate stands to make an announcement. “And now, a little matchmaking for the future of our industries...”

Your name is called. Then someone else's—a smiling heir to a luxury tech firm, who takes your hand as the crowd claps politely. The implication is clear: shared investments. A merger. Marriage, maybe.

You freeze.

Victor doesn’t.

“Oh, charming,” he says under his breath, lifting his glass to his lips. “They’re auctioning you off like a quarterly asset.”

You cut him a glare. “Not your concern.”

But he doesn’t look away. His fingers tap once on the stem of his glass. You know that signal. He’s irritated. Worse—jealous. Not visibly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you notice.

You try to brush it off, but when the man beside you leans in to whisper something—too close, too bold—Victor moves.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a scene.

He simply reaches over and adjusts the bracelet on your wrist. His touch lingers longer than necessary, his voice low enough that only you hear it.

“Tell him to watch his hands. That bracelet bites.”

You should laugh. Or at least respond with some scathing remark. But your throat catches.

And then, like nothing happened, Victor stands. Calmly. Smoothly. He offers you his hand, as though this were all planned.

“Walk with me.”

You hesitate.

“Or,” he adds softly, “let them keep pretending we’re strangers.”

You take his hand.

Out in the quiet marble hallway, away from the noise and clinking glasses, he doesn’t let go. Not until you stop walking, and he turns to face you, jaw set, eyes unreadable.

“You were going to let them set you up with him?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to cause a scene.”

“You don’t need to. You already did.” He exhales slowly, looking away. “Do you know how exhausting it is to pretend you’re not the smartest, most impossible person in the room?”

You blink. “Victor—”

And then he kisses you. No hesitation. No show. Just a quiet, certain kind of kiss. The kind that erases the crowd, the rivalry, the act.

The kind that says: We were never enemies. You were just mine all along.