The grand ballroom of the Vanmere Hotel glittered like a crown in the heart of the city—chandeliers suspended like constellations, velvet draped over every column, and music swelling through the air like polished silk. Diamonds, in partnership with several luxury brands, was co-hosting the annual Hearts for Heritage charity gala. It was the kind of event where opulence paraded as generosity, and Tiana Kings moved through it like royalty.
She entered the ballroom without hesitation, her black velvet gown catching the light with every step. Her presence was a signal: the CEO had arrived.
Behind her, keeping a quiet distance but never too far, was Dylan Haven. He wore the black tuxedo with the same clean restraint he brought to everything. His posture was upright, movements spare, eyes scanning constantly. Not for threats—this wasn't that kind of night—but for subtle cues: a beckon, a glance, a nod.
Tiana didn't need to look to know he was there. That was the point. He always was.
The room was already crowded—industry leaders, fashion icons, influencers dressed in bold risk and quiet wealth. Waiters moved like clockwork, offering champagne on silver trays. The hum of conversation was constant.
"Ms. Kings!"
A man in a velvet blazer with an overconfident grin appeared in front of her—Spencer Harlow, creative director of an elite magazine. She offered a small nod.
"Spencer."
"You're luminous as always," he said, eyes sweeping her dress.
"Thank you," she replied curtly.
"Have you met the new French ambassador? He's positively obsessed with your work. Said your last campaign for Diamonds redefined contemporary elegance."
"I'm not looking for flattery tonight."
Spencer laughed, charmed by her aloofness. "Of course not. Come, the press is dying for a photo."
She let him guide her toward the media backdrop, where flashes began the moment she stepped into frame. She posed once—chin slightly lifted, one hand at her hip. Classic. Unreadable.
Dylan stood by the perimeter, arms at his sides, expression neutral. One of the security coordinators approached him.
"Mr. Haven, would you like access to the back corridor?"
"No," Dylan replied. "She won't need an exit unless I say."
The coordinator hesitated, then nodded and moved on.
After the photo op, Tiana returned to mingling, her champagne untouched in her hand. The event, for her, was a stage. A necessary performance. A way to keep Diamonds in the right eyes and the right headlines.
She listened to chatter about upcoming launches, gallery showcases, market forecasts, social alignments. She smiled when expected, nodded when required, but never let her guard down.
At 8:30 p.m., the lights dimmed and a voice from the stage welcomed guests formally. The host, a former supermodel turned philanthropist, introduced a short film showcasing the work the charity had accomplished in preserving architectural landmarks.
As the lights flickered and the reel played, Tiana stood near the edge of the room, arms folded. Dylan appeared beside her a minute later—not close enough to draw attention, but near enough to speak quietly.
"Do you want to be seated?" he asked.
"No."
He didn't press.
"I hate these events," she murmured.
"I know."
A beat passed. Neither looked at the other.
"Your mother," she said softly, "she seemed proud of you."
Dylan's jaw tightened. "She lies convincingly."
"She wasn't lying."
Dylan didn't answer. A flicker of emotion passed behind his eyes, but it vanished before it could settle.
A round of applause signaled the end of the film. The lights returned, and guests began to file toward their tables.
Tiana turned to him, eyes sharp. "You can take a break. I'll be seated for the next hour."
He gave a single nod. "Text if that changes."
She moved toward her assigned seat at the head sponsor's table. He drifted to the perimeter again, invisible yet present, a ghost in a bowtie.
The dinner passed in a blur of small talk and artful plating. Tiana said little unless spoken to. Across from her sat a man she hadn't seen in years—Julian Fairmont, former investor, now a tech mogul with a talent for reinvention. He raised his glass halfway through the main course.
"To timeless empires," he said, toasting the table. Then, looking directly at her: "And the women who build them."
She met his gaze. "Flattery doesn't work on me."
"I remember," he said, smiling. "That's why it's fun to try."
Dylan, from his place near the ballroom's archway, watched the exchange without expression. His eyes never left her table. He didn't like Julian. Men like that were all charm and hidden claws.
At 10:15 p.m., Tiana stood. The auction portion of the evening was beginning, and her speech was scheduled before the bidding began.
She approached the stage like a queen taking her throne. When she reached the podium, the room stilled. Even Julian stopped smiling.
"Thank you," she said into the microphone, her voice even, cool, unwavering.
"In a world where history is erased every day in favor of profit, preserving culture isn't just a responsibility—it's resistance. Tonight, we invest in memory. In art. In identity."
Her words were clipped, sharp, deliberate.
She ended with: "Diamonds is honored to support this cause. And we thank each of you who lends your name—and your action—to it."
Applause followed. She stepped down without lingering.
By the time the auction began, she'd rejoined Dylan near the ballroom entrance.
"I'm leaving soon," she said softly. "Have the car ready in ten."
He nodded and moved without reply.
Outside, the night had turned colder. The car was waiting at the entrance, engine running, heat already set. Dylan held the door open.
Tiana slid in without a word. He closed the door, walked around, and joined her up front.
As they pulled away from the Vanmere, she leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes for a second.
"Long night," he said.
"They always are."
"Julian Fairmont," he added, after a pause. "Haven't seen him in the company lists before."
"I don't keep a list," she said. "But he used to."
Dylan didn't pry.
"You don't like him," she noted.
"He's a manipulator."
"They all are."
"Not all," he said, eyes fixed on the road. "Just the ones who smile too much."
That made her lips twitch—almost a smile. But not quite.
She watched the city pass outside the window.
"He once went on a date with me and tried to sleep with me," she said. "Three years ago."
Dylan glanced at her in the mirror.
"I said no," she added. "He didn't take it well."
"I wouldn't have either," Dylan murmured.
She looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Meaning?"
"You don't lose quietly, Ms. Kings."
For a long moment, silence returned. Then she said, "Neither do you."
And for once, Dylan allowed himself the smallest smile.
When they arrived at her building, Dylan stepped out and opened her door.
Tiana paused, one heel still inside the car, and looked up at him.
Dylan held her gaze for a moment. Then, simply: "Good night, ma'am."
She stepped out, brushing past him like perfume and shadows.
As the door closed behind her, Dylan stood for a moment longer than usual, watching the place where she'd disappeared into the elevator.
Then he returned to the car, slid into the seat, and drove into the dark.