You weren’t ready for the mic.

The Langford Hotel rooftop glittered with champagne flutes, string lights, and old money. The annual “Hearts for Hope” gala was meant to be elegant. Sophisticated. Classy.

And here you were, clinging to your wine glass in a backless gown, pretending not to be engaged to the most disruptive man in the building—Kade Maddox.

Billionaire investor. Boardroom legend. Tabloid wildfire. The man could crash a market and still have women asking for his number on the way out of the courtroom.

He was power in human form—sharp suit, sharper smirk—and, somehow, your fiancé.

A mic was suddenly in your face, camera lights flaring.

“What do you love about Kade Maddox?”

You froze for half a beat. He was somewhere across the rooftop, probably tormenting a senator or pretending to care about the silent auction.

You gave your most diplomatic smile and said sweetly, “I love his huge, sweet personality.”

The crowd cooed in unison—“Awwww!”

And then he showed up. Kade slid behind you with the quiet confidence of a man who knew he could ruin lives and still be loved for it. His back pressed against your chest, hand resting casually on your waist like he owned it. Like he owned you.

He leaned in, voice low and wicked, lips grazing your ear. “Come on,” he murmured, amused. “That’s not what you said last night.”

The crowd exploded. “OOOOOH!”