Million Dollar Devil

28.

The elevator descends slowly, each floor ticking by like the calm before a storm. I watch myself in the mirrored glass, spine straight, chin lifted. My reflection doesn't blink. She's poised, controlled, maybe even beautiful.

By the time the doors slide open, the music already reaches me, floating through the hallway like sweet perfume. Violins. Soft, elegant, and expensive. The kind of music that says: you've made it.

The carpet muffles the click of my heels as I step out. I walk slowly, letting the dress move with me like liquid silk clinging to every curve, the slit high enough to say danger with every step. My pulse is steady, smile is sharpened, like a soldier going into battle.

The giant heavy doors stand open at the end of the hallway, spilling golden light into the corridor like a storybook palace. Laughter sounds in the distance over the sounds of clinking glasses and fingers dancing on piano keys I catch the glint of crystal chandeliers through the open doors, the kind that cost more than most people's homes.  Inside, it's a sea of tailored tuxedos and gowns that catch the light like diamonds.

The second I step through the doors, I feel it. That subtle pull of attention.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a soft shift in the room. A few pairs of eyes glance up, linger a beat longer than expected. One woman gives me a once-over, expression unreadable. A man near the bar nudges his friend.

My cheeks warm instinctively.

But I don't look away. I lift my chin just slightly, let the warmth in my chest settle into something steadier. Not arrogance or ego, just... awareness. Of myself. Of how I look. Of how far I've come from the girl who used to stand in the back of the room, hoping no one would notice.

My gaze moves across the room subtly, not wanting to look like I'm looking for anyone. Especially not him.

I spot Alex across the room. He's talking to a small group of men I half-recognize from past meetings, a glass of whiskey in one hand, tie slightly loosened in that calculated way that says I don't try too hard but I always win. He's laughing at something, until his eyes land on me.

He doesn't say anything, but his posture changes. His grin fades into something else. His eyes take me in from head to toe, painfully with slow predatory ease. My blush deepens.

I press my palm gently to my hip, grounding myself as he walks toward me with the kind of confidence that feels too practiced to be real, but works all the same. He moves like he knows people are watching. Like he's aware of how the room bends slightly to make space for him. His eyes lock on mine, steady, sharp, like he's already imagined how this moment plays out.

"You look... stunning," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like it was meant for me and no one else in the room. His gaze lingers, unapologetic.

"You clean up well yourself," I say, keeping my tone light, even as his eyes drag over me like he's trying to memorize the details.

He grins, lazy and sharp. "Careful. You're encouraging me."

"You started it," I lift and eyebrow.

"Technically, you did. Walking in here looking like that?" He leans in slightly, just enough to close the space without touching. "If I were a better man, I'd pretend to be more subtle."

"Don't strain yourself," I murmur, rolling my eyes even as my heart rate ticks up a notch.

He laughs dangerously low, "Wouldn't dream of it," he says, letting his eyes trail down the length of me, then back up. "Not with a woman like you."

"Careful," I say, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You're laying it on thick." I let out a soft, skeptical laugh, but it sticks somewhere in my throat.

He tilts his head, lips curved, but the amusement in his expression fades just slightly, replaced by something heavier. "Trust me," he replies, voice rougher now, "I haven't even started."