The Fundraiser
Remi’s POV
I was halfway through a research report and a lukewarm cup of tea when chaos knocked on my front door.
Not figuratively.
Literally.
Knocking.
Banging.
Voices.
Then Jo’s voice—panicked and breathless—“Remi! Don’t scream!”
I opened the door and froze.
There were people outside. At least five of them. Maybe more. All dressed in black, wheeling in racks of gowns and shoes, dragging in makeup kits, cases that looked like they carried either diamonds or classified weapons. One woman had a sewing kit strapped to her waist like a gunslinger. Another man was holding fabric samples like swatches of gold.
Jo grinned. “Surprise.”
“Jo,” I said slowly, stepping back as two people wheeled a massive rack of designer dresses into my living room. “Is there a reason my house looks like Paris Fashion Week threw up in it?”
“Ask him,” she said, pointing dramatically behind her.
And there he was.
Rowan Vaughn.
In a black turtleneck and that annoying half-smile he always wore when he knew I was about to lose my mind.
I crossed my arms. “Explain. Now.”
He stepped in, hands in his pockets, surveying the fashion invasion with a casual shrug. “There’s a gala.”
“I’m aware,” I said. “It’s for your foundation.”
“And I want you to be my plus one.”
I blinked. “You… what?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “You. Me. Walk in. Together. As us.”
I blinked again.
“And the fashion SWAT team?”
He smiled wider. “You’re going to make a statement, Remi.”
I stared at him.
Then at the gowns.
Then back at him.
“You couldn’t just text me?”
“I could’ve,” he said, stepping closer. “But then I wouldn’t get to see your face when I tell you the whole world’s going to be watching. And that I want you beside me when they do.”
My heart did this stupid flutter thing. I hated it.
“No pressure or anything,” Jo added from the couch, already flipping through shoes like it was her birthday.
I exhaled. “So I don’t get a choice.”
Rowan tilted his head. “You always get a choice.”
I looked at him for a long second. “Fine. But if I hate everything, I’m wearing my lab coat.”
“Hot,” he murmured.
I rolled my eyes.
But I was smiling.
\---
An hour later, I stood in front of the mirror in one of the gowns.
It was deep emerald green, fitted perfectly at the waist, and flared just enough to feel dramatic without swallowing me whole. The fabric shimmered when I moved. The neckline dipped low but not desperate. I looked like someone who made headlines without saying a word.
Jo was teary-eyed in the corner. “Oh my God. You look like vengeance.”
One of the stylists gasped. “You look like power.”
Rowan stepped in from the hall, took one look at me, and stopped moving.
His eyes didn’t just scan me—they lingered. Soft. Surprised. Something unreadable in them.
“Is it too much?” I asked, suddenly uncertain.
He shook his head slowly. “You look like every woman they were too afraid to dream of.”
I stared at him.
Okay, that was a line.
But damn, it worked.
He offered me his arm. “Shall we?”
I took it.
And the world could watch all it wanted.
The car pulled up to the front of the glittering hall, and from the moment Rowan stepped out and held his hand out to me, the cameras exploded.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
I took his hand and stepped into the night like it owed me something. The emerald gown clung like a second skin, and Rowan at my side looked like every magazine cover rolled into one dangerously sharp man in a suit.
The gala was being held for the Vaughn Health Initiative—an annual fundraiser Rowan’s family had started to support underfunded hospitals and surgical research. Only this year, it wasn’t just about healthcare. This year, it was about power. Redemption. Reinvention. Every CEO, medical pioneer, celebrity, and politician with a name worth Googling was inside.
And we were the ones stealing the air the moment we walked in.
Whispers started immediately.
“Is that…?”
“Remi Laurent?”
“She goes by De Luca now.”
“Are they back together?”
“The surgeon and the billionaire? You’re kidding me.”
“I thought she left him.”
“No, he left her, didn’t he?”
“I heard she saved his life.”
“They look like a damn movie.”
I didn’t respond. Neither did Rowan. We just moved through the crowd like we belonged—because we did. I nodded politely to the Minister of Health, shook hands with the Chief Medical Director of Novalon General, and even smiled at the gossip columnist I knew would write an article about my neckline.
Rowan’s hand never left mine.
They weren’t used to seeing us like this—together, confident, not broken or bruised or running. And for once, I didn’t care what they thought.
We were a spectacle.
And we owned it.
But then, Rowan’s hand tensed slightly in mine.
His body stilled.
I followed his line of sight.
And there he was.
Davenport.
Standing near the champagne bar, dressed in black like he was still pretending to matter. Still clinging to relevance like old blood on clean white floors. His eyes locked on Rowan. Then on me.
And he smiled.
Not warm.
Not kind.
The kind of smile that promised something sharp.
Rowan didn’t flinch.
He didn’t speak.
He just stared.
I frowned, turning slightly toward him. “Are you going to let him bother you?”
Rowan blinked like he’d forgotten I was there. His jaw flexed once, then twice, and he looked down at me. “No.”
“Good.”
We started to walk past, deliberately ignoring the man who had tried—more than once—to destroy everything tied to us. I could feel Davenport watching, drinking us in like he was waiting for the right moment to poison the air.
He found it.
“Quite the entrance, Vaughn,” Davenport said loudly, voice smug. “You’re finally walking straight again. I suppose being dragged around on a leash makes you easier to control.”
Rowan stopped mid-step.
The temperature dropped.
I felt it immediately—his shift. Like a calm surface cracking.
He turned, slowly, deliberately, the lines of his face hard like marble. “What did you just say?”
Davenport shrugged, holding his glass lazily. “No disrespect. Just surprised. I thought she buried you once already. Or were the photos outside just for show?”
Rowan moved.
I reached for his arm, but his eyes had already darkened. Not furious. Not wild. Just cold. Controlled. The kind of cold that meant he wasn’t going to shout—he was going to ruin something.
“Say anything else,” Rowan said, voice low and sharp. “Just one more word.”
Davenport’s smirk faltered for a second. Only a second. But it was enough.
Rowan stepped forward, inch by inch. “You really should’ve stayed in the shadows where rats like you belong.”
I slid my fingers back into Rowan’s hand, gr
ounding him. “He’s not worth it.”
Rowan looked at me.
And then he smiled.
The kind of smile that made promises. Dangerous ones. Quiet ones.
He turned back to Davenport. “Enjoy your night. While it lasts.”
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