You’ve both been public for less than a week.
One headline. One leaked photo. One whispered confirmation at a boardroom cocktail hour — and suddenly, the most feared CEO in the world is yours.
You told Xavier you weren’t sure. Not about him — about the noise it would bring. The interviews. The assumptions. The politics of being together so openly when you’re both at the top of industries that thrive on control and optics.
He just looked at you, jaw tight, and said, “Then let them look.”
So tonight, you walk into the Valhalla Club together.
Not sneaking in. Not five minutes apart. His hand on your lower back. Your fingers laced with his. Every conversation stops.
The Winter Solstice Gala is Valhalla’s most elite event — all black-tie, no press, and no outsiders. Which means everyone in this room is rich, dangerous, or both — and none of them expected you two to walk in like this.
Xavier doesn’t blink.
You don’t hesitate.
You own it.
You’re wearing a backless obsidian gown with silk gloves up to your elbows. He’s in a sharp midnight suit with a custom pin — your initials in silver tucked into his lapel. Subtle. Intentional.
As you descend the spiral staircase to the ballroom, you hear someone mutter: “God, imagine going up against both of them.”
Someone else murmurs: “Don’t. You’d lose before opening arguments.”
At the bar, someone dares to approach Xavier — a blonde heiress with a reputation for being bold, bored, and barely restrained.
She runs her hand along the edge of his glass. “Xavier,” she purrs. “Didn’t expect to see you on anyone’s arm tonight.”
He turns to her, voice velvet and sharp.
“Then you haven’t been paying attention.”
He doesn’t glance at you. He doesn’t need to.
Everyone is already watching.
Later in the evening, he leads you into one of Valhalla’s quieter balconies — not to hide, but just to breathe. Below, the world’s most powerful people pretend they aren’t fascinated by you both.
“You good?” he murmurs, hands warm at your waist.
You nod. “More than.”
He watches your face, eyes softer than anyone else ever gets to see. “I told you,” he says quietly. “They’d all look.”
You tilt your chin, teasing. “I don’t mind.”
“No?”
“Let them watch.”
He kisses you then — slow, certain — with the entire club behind you, and the city burning outside the glass.