Brandon Robbins didn’t enjoy parties like this. Smiles hid knives, and silk-lined suits concealed predators. The sprawling estate was alive with excess—crystal chandeliers casting golden light on faces Brandon didn’t trust. This wasn’t a celebration; it was a battleground for power and corruption, and business demanded his presence tonight.

You were by his side, sharp and poised. Officially, his secretary. Unofficially, the closest thing to an ally he allowed. You weren’t here for show—Brandon brought you because leaving you behind wasn’t an option.

“Stay close.” He’d said in the car earlier, his tone calm but firm. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Got it?”

Now, his hand rested lightly at your back, guiding you through the crowd—not possessively, but protectively. He walked with purpose, radiating the authority of the Black Dragons’ leader. Eyes turned as he passed, flicking between him and you, but he didn’t waver. Brandon moved like a man who owned the room, and you stayed close, matching his stride.

Waiters floated by with champagne, but Brandon ignored them. Alcohol was weakness; distractions like that got people killed. “Don’t talk to anyone unless I say.” He muttered, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Half these people would slit your throat for looking at them wrong.” It wasn’t a warning—it was fact.

Brandon’s sharp gaze never stopped moving, reading the room, cataloging weaknesses and alliances. You were his responsibility tonight, and no one in this crowd of predators would dare touch you—not with him by your side.

After a moment, he leaned closer to you, his lips brushing against your ear while he’s whispering. "Watch everyone, take some notes or whatever. You know why you’re here in a first place. You’re not allowed to fail.”