Chapter 14

Standing before the long, gilded mirror. I do not recognise the person looking back at me.

The hair stylist was a middle-aged Asian woman. To my surprise, she knew how to handle black hair. My roasted brown coils are swept up in a fancy chignon. My face is shaped with expert contouring, glowing with a goddess-like highlight and lip gloss. Not to mention the winged eyeliner that’s cleaner than my mama’s kitchen. But the real killer is the dress. Simplistic elegance. A dark green satin dress with a crisscross, open back and high slits, matched with a pair of emerald studded earrings.

But all my mind can marinate on is that this is my one and only chance to escape. This manor is guarded by a small army of armed men, and I’m under surveillance at all times. My only shot is this... gala. A lot of eyes, publicity, which means I will figure out how to send a message out if I can’t physically escape.

The door swings open. I swivel around. Torin walks in, enveloped in a Dolce and Gabbana linen Taormina-fit suit with a silk blend. The beige color matches well with his bronzed skin, the fit flaunting his gym-honed physique. His wavy hair groomed in a pompadour style with a side part.

“The event started already, which means it’s our cue to leave—” He halts abruptly. He turns his head a bit to the side, his eyes never leaving my body. Over his shoulder, he says, “I’ll need an extra hour.”

I guess someone’s outside.

My brows furrow. “For what?”

“Because you’re not leaving this room unfucked.”

My eyes explode. Heat stings my cheeks. “And what would your brother think about that?”

His smile vanishes. “Why the fuck do you think I care what he thinks?” Venom leaking into his tone. “Do you think I’m scared of him?”

I tilt my head to the side, looking at him from top to bottom. “Then come here.”

His smile returns; wavering and wobbling. “I would.” He bites down on his lip. “God knows I would, buuut," he drags out. “We should get going.”

I strut over to him. “That’s what I thought,” I say, brushing past him.

Outside the bedroom, there’s two guards flanking the door, dressed in all black. Fully automatic rifles pinned to their chests. Torin takes point and the guards follow behind me as we make our way to the front entrance. The manor looks completely different during the day, inundated in dying sunlight. Tall walls with neutral palettes with accent colors, natural stone cladding at some places with Persian rugs lining the hallways.

We pass through the massive oak doors, opened by another set of guards. Down the circular staircase, three cars are waiting out front. Two Range Rovers and a Mercedes Benz Maybach in the middle. All Black. Because apparently there’s something wrong with any other color.

We descend.

Torin opens the backseat door for me with a touch of a button. I slip in. He enters. One guard closes the door behind him. The interior is custom made with red and black leather, the individual units are facing each other. And Orian is sitting opposite me, girded in grace in a Hugo burgundy suit with a notched lapel collar. Welt pocket at his chest and full black viscose satin lining. His hair slicked back with a fresh low fade. Damn.

His gaze detaches from his phone, fixing it on me. Flustered, I look away. As a convoy, the cars roll out together. I observe the scene for a brief moment, the green gleaming under the westering light. I glance back at Orian, but he’s already staring at me. My heart sprints a mile dash in a second. I rest my hands on the plush armrest, fingers digging into it anxiously.

“Wow... the sexual tension is deafening,” Torin says with painful emphasis. He points his thumb behind him. “I can always leave and ride in the other car if you want... privacy.”

I look at him sideways. Orian cuts him with a sharp look.

My eyes shut for a second. “Can you at least tell me what this event is about?”

“Fundraiser for a huge housing development. It serves our civic duty to attend as well as garnering goodwill, we show our support and make a small donation.”

Looking out the window, the wrought iron gate rises from the ground. “Using the destitute as a photo op to elevate yourselves?” Sarcasm soaks every word. “How selfless.”

“If we didn’t care, Zenith wouldn’t have foundations dedicated to creating jobs, promoting self-sufficiency by investing in small businesses and funding local projects,” Torin retorted. “And empowering people to be employers instead of employees.”

I still don’t know where the manor house is located. But now I’m going to find out. The line of cars makes their way out of the estate, evidently on highland, enveloped by resplendent summits. Immersed in a sylvan tapestry.

Suffering through suffocating silence, my focus is outside, memorizing the route, ingraining every road sign to my memory. And for the longest time, there is not even a single structure out here in the wilderness. No neighbors, not even a damn neighborhood. Their manor is completely sequestered like they own the whole region.

After an hour of driving, we make it to the city.

It becomes very clear where we are going.

Paparazzi and reporters swarm the foot of a double story building. The sequence of luxury cars pull up before a red carpet that leads straight to the inside. Orian straightens his blazer with one tug. The door opens and he exits. I look back at Torin and he jerks his chin to the opening.

Orian extends out his hand.

I shake my head in sheer disbelief. This is going to discredit everything I was working on, actively going against Zenith to expose it and undermine its founder. Now here I am. With him!

“Smile like your life depends on it,” Torin says with an obnoxious smirk.

Asshole.

I shift the dress, the satin spilling, exposing my leg. I move and lay my hand in his. Orian guides me out and I’m instantly blinded by the white flashes, a barrage of shuttering snaps and a succession of questions. With practiced ease, I switch on a fool-proof smile. The sides are overflowing with camera-carrying throngs. Orian interlocks our fingers and leads me down the carpet. But before we enter the building, he veers off the path to the photoshoot booth with a velvety, royal blue carpet and a wide backdrop with an NGO logo imprinted on it.

Orian sets us up in the center, standing before the array of photographers. He wraps his arm around my hips, reeling me to him, his hand resting too close to a certain area. Smiling elastically, I turn to discourage his hand placement. He then places a firm grip on my ass. Flutters explode from my gut to my chest. His face chiseled in a stoic reserve.

He slants his head closer, whispering in my ear, “Stop squirming.”

Maintaining a smile. I turn my head. Our faces inches apart.

“Get. Your. Dirty hands. Off my ass.”

“Keep on and I’ll give you something to squirm about.”

Nearly sucked in by the void. I look away from his eyes, my gaze drops to his lips, lingering for too long. The bottom one is slightly bigger than the top.

“You make a lot of threats.” Realizing too late how provocative that sounded.

His grip tightens, eyes darkening dangerously. “Just wait until we get back.”

My eyes implode. “No, that’s not what I—”

“Shh,” he hushes, a deadly smile slicing his face apart. “I’m ready to get this event done with. It seems we got better plans.”

Guiding me by the hips, he moves us away from the booth. We head inside with Torin in tow. At the entryway they don’t even check us for an invitation or anything. Security lets us through and what looks to be the organizers of the event, they start greeting him profusely, regarding him with a reverence deserved for deities.

When we make it to the main event, it’s in full swing. Awash with aristocrats, men wrapped in Armani suits, women outfitted in exotic silks. Classical music playing. The rims of the— ridiculously opulent ballroom—are lined with tables and chairs ornate with gaudy decorations as well as the set on the stage up front. The middle is teeming with the elite, holding flutes of golden champagne. Strings of prim and proper servers weave about with trays of appetizers. Orian offers his arm silently. I glare at it before I loop my arm with his.

Torin appears at my other side. Sandwiched between the Moon brothers.

We make our way through. And even the dust part for them. Orian’s presence bespeaks power, commanding respect and submission without uttering a word. I try to evade eye contact. Our arrival demanding attention that could easily induce crippling social anxiety. Orian and Torin wear twin masks of absolute apathy, immune to it like everyone in this room is inferior.

"Oh lawd.”

They both look at me.

“What?” Torin asks.

Straight ahead a woman stands on her own, surrounded by a cluster of men attired in crisp suits.

“Anna Kantorovich, a major contributor for Trans-Media Global.”

“We should say hello,” Torin prompts, trading devilish smirks with his brother.

“No—”

I turn but Torin catches me, locking his arm around mine. Seized by both of them as they force me in her direction.

“Perhaps she’ll personally ensure the network does special coverage for this evening,” Torin says in mock thought.

“They already have good pictures to work with,” Orian adds.

At this point, I’ll willingly give myself up to Gaza.

Torin leans closer. “I’m assuming she’s not married.”

I glance back at him. “How’d you know?”

“A woman in that position of influence doesn’t have time for dick,” he answers with a sly grin. He liberates me and breaks away to walk a step ahead. “Ah, Miss Kantorovich,” he announces in a greeting tone.

Her lordly gaze of judgment settles on Torin. Her lips thin before they widen into an indulgent smile. “Ah...Torin Moon, is it? What a pleasant surprise,” she says with an acidic tone, then her eyes draw to Orian. “The CEO himself, an honor.”

“The honor is all ours,” Torin says, his eyes alight, a smile beaming.

When she looks my way, her eyes pierce right through me. “Hadassah Moor,” she says with immediate recognition.”

“You know who I am?” I say like an idiot.

“Of course I do,” she says with a tint of regret. “I reviewed your piece on the Sinaloa bust, international arms dealing that resulted in the seizure of countless weapons. I was… impressed. And I rarely am. An achievement of that scope was done by a young woman.” Admiration devolves into animosity. “But now....” Her gaze hooks into Orian. “Remind me again, Miss Moor. I read your exposure report and upcoming agenda. And I swear that Orian Moon made the cut with a disturbingly long list of allegations against Zenith to back it up.”

Torin looks at me, expecting me to defend them. It’s what they wanted.

Heaving the words out before I choke on the lie, I say, “Yes, well. In all instances that were brought to our attention, the proffered evidence was insufficient to provide even circumstantial corroboration. I have seen for myself the exceptional social and economic impact that Zenith has had. The only thing they’re guilty of is being… inspiring visionaries.”

Torin erects. He catches Orian’s attention to point out someone in the crowd with his eyes. Orian looks and gives his approval with a nod. Torin excuses himself and walks off.

Anna looks at them both incredulously, staring after Torin before she looks back at me. “If you’re saying it. Then it must be true. Are you liaising with the network because I heard you were loaned out?”

“I am,” I say tightly, nodding like my neck is broken. “I’m just attending the gala, privately.”

“As his plus one?”

Nosy bitch.

“And what are you to him?”

“She’s my woman,” Orian declares.

Her jaw nearly hits the floor. I nearly choke on my own spit. Orian’s hand slithers around my waist and he whisks me away. Dumbstruck I surrender, yielding to his touch, I become but a dandelion swayed by tempestuous winds. Coming out of the daze, I repeat, “Your woman?”

Far enough, Orian brings us to a standstill. He takes my arm and drapes it over his shoulder, then he coils his arm around my waist, drawing me to him. He takes my other hand and holds it aloft.

“What are you doing?”

“Dancing.”

His motion orchestrates the rhythm of our dance, and effortlessly I become one with his stride, like a river flowing in perfect harmony with its course.

“I didn’t know you could dance.”

“You know nothing about me.” He pulls away and spins me around, twirling me beneath our entwined fingers. He draws me back to him. His hand trails up my back, an illicit spark. And in that forbidden moment, an ember kindles upon my skin, igniting a tempest where fire and ice collide.

“Time will change that.”

I raise a brow at him. “You make it sound like you’re never going to let me go.”

“I don’t think I can.” He makes a verbal retreat. “Not until I can negotiate on your behalf; your freedom for the book.”

“But I burnt it.” Liar.

He nods pensively. “Which is why you’re rewriting it. We’ll give that to him after we make a copy of our own. The only reason you’re not dead is that eidetic memory of yours. Very convenient.”

A smile fights its way on my face. “How did you know it’s eidetic and not photographic?”

“What?” he asks absently.

“How did you know?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Sakura.” He takes hold of my waist and lifts me into the air, spinning us slowly. Clinging to each other’s gaze. “Just be glad that in the end...”

He lowers me back to the ground and dips me, my torso unfurling. Then he whips me back up and we collide, he catches my leg, holding it up to his hip, his hand under my thigh. My hand on his chest. He leans forward earnestly, his forehead resting on my own. I swallow. Hard. His labored breaths send tendrils of heat spiraling through my veins. The feel of his body, the firm press of his chest against my own, wholly embraced in his possessive grip.

“... You will have what you want.”

Struck by the electricity, we stand as vassals, victims of what no man can master as the palpable anticipation crackles in the air between us.

“... What I want.”