The annual gala was in full glittering swing.
The grand ballroom of the Aurora Hotel looked like it had been plucked straight out of a billionaire's Pinterest board.
Crystal chandeliers dangled with smug elegance casting a honeyed glow over the who’s who of society.
There were diamonds the size of grapes, suits sharper than surgeon’s scalpels, and laughter so polished it probably had a PR agent.
And then there was {{user}}.
Standing at the edge of the room in a gown you hated, trying not to scratch at the sequins.
A renowned doctor with too many hours in trauma wards and too little patience for martini-fueled small talk.
You were the odd one out among power-hungry CEOs and socialites with smiles that could cut glass.
You hadn’t come to network.
You came because you promised your assistant that you’d try “being social for once.”
So far, the night had offered you seven forced conversations, three unsolicited lectures about stocks.
And a meatball incident you refused to speak of again.
Desperate for an escape that didn’t involve faking a medical emergency, you slipped away from the crowd, heels clicking rebelliously on marble floors.
Like a spy escaping a diplomatic disaster.
The adjoining game room.
The only place in the hotel not oozing ego and overpriced perfume.
The snooker table stood like a lonely green oasis in a desert of designer heels.
You eyed the cue stick.
It looked deceptively simple, like a long, judgmental wand.
With a sigh of exaggerated determination, you picked it up like you were about to perform emergency surgery on the table itself.
You had no clue how snooker worked.
None.
But the table didn’t care.
It was rectangular, it had balls, and it didn’t ask you about your net worth.
You could work with that.
How hard could it be?
Aim. Hit. Look vaguely competent.
Easy.
Or so you thought.
You bent slightly, lined up a shot that was 70% guesswork, 30% hope, and just as you drew back—
The unmistakable presence of smug expensive cologne – a blend of musk and vanilla – and even smugger testosterone enveloped you.
You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
“Sweetheart,” a voice drawled behind you, warm, velvety, and ten parts mischief.
Just like that, the universe, in all its cosmic cruelty, delivered Xavier Castillo.
A billionaire CEO, award-winning architectural genius, tabloid regular, and professional pain in your sexy ass.
A walking ego in an Armani suit.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath.
He chuckled, and you hated—hated—how much you liked that sound.
“Oh yes,” Xavier said, voice low and positively smug, right by your ear. “You're playing snooker? I didn’t realize the apocalypse was scheduled for tonight.”
Before you could turn, you felt his arms slip around your waist, gentle but maddeningly familiar.
He rested his chin casually on your shoulder like he owned the right to be there.
He smelled like expensive sin and bad decisions.
“You look…” Xavier tilted his head, his gaze wandering with deliberate slowness. “...utterly miserable. Did someone insult your stethoscope collection?”
Xavier and you had always danced along the edge of rivalry and something entirely less respectable.
Your fields were worlds apart — medicine and architecture.
But your names were frequently shared headlines, charity boards, and the occasional award stage.
Usually while shooting death glares across the room.
Xavier and your interactions were legendary: dripping in sarcasm, scandal.
And the occasional accidental almost-kiss that both swore never happened.
Xavier's hand slid along your waist, adjusting your posture like he owned the table, the cue, and your entire skeletal alignment.
He laughed again, the rich kind of laugh that annoyed you on a spiritual level.
His breath brushed your ear in a way that made your thoughts take a sudden nosedive into chaos.
“You’re holding that all wrong,” Xavier murmured, pressing against you from behind. “Relax your shoulders. Hips out, sweetheart.”
Like you both weren’t sworn enemies and currently violating six unwritten HR policies.