Trouble In Red
HARDIN'S POV
The engine purred beneath me as I cut through the streets of downtown, my fingers gripping the steering wheel with just a little more force than necessary. Ariana’s face haunted my rearview mirror, the angry red welt on her cheek playing over and over in my mind like a taunt. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve canceled this damn meeting. But she insisted, and I respected her strength too much to smother her in protection she didn’t ask for.
Still, my blood boiled. I couldn’t erase the image of her flinching in front of the mirror, or the way her voice had trembled when she said, "Only when I smile." She had no idea how close I came to dragging Celia out of that house by her hair.
I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back to ease the tension. The black Bentley slid into the valet lane outside The Grand Echelon—one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Sleek glass windows, gold-trimmed doors, and a waitlist so long it made even the richest bastards sweat.
I handed the keys to the valet and strode inside, nodding to the host who recognized me immediately. "Mr Richards. Right this way."
The restaurant was polished elegance, all soft lighting, crystal chandeliers, and whispered conversations. The host led me to a corner booth—private, quiet, perfect for business. I glanced at my watch. 11:58 AM. Mr Davis should’ve already been here.
A minute passed.
Then another.
I was just reaching for my phone when a shadow fell across the table.
"You must be Hardin Richards," a sultry voice purred.
I looked up.
A tall woman in blood-red heels and a black fitted dress stood over the table. Long legs, sharp cheekbones, full lips painted the same shade as her shoes. Her hair was a silky curtain of chestnut brown, and her eyes—green, feline, calculating—were locked on me like I was a rare cut of steak she intended to devour.
"Sorry," I said, standing politely. "I think you have the wrong table."
She smiled, slow and knowing. "No. I’m exactly where I need to be. You’re Hardin Richards, right?"
My brows drew together. "Yes."
"Then this is the right table. Mr Davis couldn’t make it today. He sent me in his place. I’m Beatrice Davis."
I didn’t offer my hand.
Instead, I sat back down slowly, heart sinking. Beatrice Davis. The name was familiar. I’d seen it attached to fashion editorials and socialite gossip columns—usually followed by the words scandalous, provocative, or dangerously charming.
She slid into the booth opposite me like she owned the room, crossing one long leg over the other, giving me a view I knew she intended me to see.
"How exactly are you related to Mr Davis?" I asked, forcing professionalism into my tone.
"He’s my father." she said breezily, running a finger around the rim of her water glass. "And he trusts me implicitly with our brand's expansion. Especially when it involves something as exciting as partnering with you."
There was something in the way she said it. Dripping in suggestion.
I reached for the folder beside me and placed it on the table, flipping it open. "Right. Well, the proposal outlines the potential merge between Davis Fine Jewelers and the Richards collection. We’re looking for mutual exclusivity on high-end collaborations for the next four quarters."
She didn’t even look at the document.
Instead, she leaned forward, her perfume hitting me like a soft chokehold. Jasmine. Expensive. Claustrophobic.
"Mmm. Contracts," she purred. "So dull. Don't you think business would go so much smoother over a bottle of wine? Maybe dinner somewhere less... uptight."
I gave her a tight smile. "Wine during a midday meeting tends to cloud judgment. And I prefer to keep things clear."
Her laugh was soft, smoky. "Well, you certainly look like a man who knows what he wants."
I stared at her. "What I want is a clean, professional partnership. Nothing more."
Beatrice tilted her head. "Is that really all you want, Hardin?"
I bristled. My name rolled off her tongue like an invitation, each syllable a caress I didn’t ask for.
I pointed to the paperwork again. "We can discuss the distribution logistics and co-branding here. The first quarter projection for your father's line looks strong, and with the Richards reach, we could double exposure. But only if we stay on track."
She sighed and finally glanced at the folder, but I could tell her interest wasn’t in the numbers. Her eyes flicked back to me too often, too hungrily.
"You're very intense," she murmured. "Has anyone ever told you that? It's... incredibly sexy."
I didn’t respond.
Because what the hell could I say to that?
She didn’t seem to mind the silence. In fact, she looked like she was enjoying it.
"Are you seeing anyone, Hardin?"
I closed the folder. "This is a business meeting, Miss Davis. Not a date."
"Beatrice," she corrected, leaning closer again. "And why can’t it be both?"
I clenched my jaw. The table felt smaller than it had before. The air heavier.
She stretched out a hand and brushed her fingers across mine.
I jerked away, subtle but sharp. "If this partnership is going to move forward, it has to remain strictly professional. If you're unable to do that, we can cancel the deal altogether."
Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes glittered. "Relax. I'm just teasing."
"I'm not," I said, voice like ice.
The rest of the meeting dragged like nails on glass. I redirected her flirtations again and again, anchoring myself in the proposal, the numbers, the benefits—but she made it exhausting. Every word from her was laced with innuendo. Every glance lingered too long. Every smile was a seduction.
By the time I finally closed the folder for good, my head throbbed.
I stood. "Thank you for your time. I'll have our legal team forward the contract to your father for final review."
She rose with me, stepping a little too close.
"I do hope we see more of each other, Hardin," she murmured, sliding a manicured hand down my arm.
I moved subtly out of her reach, walking her to the entrance.
Outside, her driver waited with the door already open.
She turned to me, those sultry eyes holding mine. Then she leaned in like she was going to kiss my cheek.
I stepped back, raising a hand. "Look over the contract. That’s the only thing that matters here."
She laughed, low and throaty. "We'll see, Mr Richards."
Then she slipped into the car like liquid silk, her dress hugging every curve.
I stood there for a moment, watching the black Lamborghini pull away.
Every instinct in my body was shouting.
Beatrice Davis was trouble. Not the fun kind.
The kind that burned reputations to the ground.
The kind that didn’t take no for an answer.
I pulled out my phone and texted Ariana immediately.
‘Meeting's over. Call me when you're free. Miss you.’
My fingers hovered, then added:
‘Also... remind me to tell you about Beatrice. You’re not going to like her.’
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and got into my car, mind still clouded with the echo of her perfume and her laugh.
Business had never felt so damn personal.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
