ANAYA'S POV
Not the highlight of the night by any stretch—unless you consider being coercively smiled and laughed at some decent enough jokes from snobbish rich kids thrilling.
For me, dancing is the best part. Always has been.
The chandelier glimmers right above the champagne fountains at the center of the banquet hall, casting golden-crystal light over the polished floor. The lighting has dimmed, and the music has changed, signaling the beginning of the dance segment.
I'm ready—waiting, really—to be asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Hugo dancing with a blonde as tall as a model. I don't recognize her, but she's the usual type.
Director Louis left some time ago—good call. With him nearby, no one would even dare to come near me for a dance.
"Anaya Fernandes."
A deep voice behind me makes me turn around. My eyes widen in shock.
Dressed in a black tailcoat and gleaming oxford shoes, the man standing in front of me speaks the language of money. His chocolate brown locks are slicked neatly back, his light brown eyes aglow with the golden light of the chandelier.
His smile is confident, perfectly rehearsed, meant to entice.
"Mathew Huang," I say with a grin, setting down my unopened glass of champagne.
He smirks gently with his full name. "So you *do* remember me. I thought you'd already forgotten."
"You're not exactly the kind of person one forgets. Especially not after what happened during college."
Mathew Huang—son of a prosperous Hong Kong conglomerate family, and my college classmate. The poster boy handsome-rich-athletic one girls on campus went wild for. But for the reason he's recalled to mind.
We were in our second year, the final night before we broke for summer vacation. My friends and I had gone out to celebrate. What would have been a typical night of foolishness nearly resulted in disaster.
While we danced and kidded around, a group of spoiled brats started harassing three of my girlfriends—beautiful women, who unfortunately seem to attract the wrong type of attention.
They kept pushing, demanding—and just when I was about to lose my temper, Mathew appeared. Lean, tall, and with a voice that dropped low and threatening when he was upset, his presence was enough to cause these guys to back down. Or maybe it was because they realized whose son he was.
Either was okay by me, because they slunk away with their tails between their legs.
We actually ended up hanging out with Mathew's group that evening. Two of my friends ended up dating his friends. One's being wedded in two months; the other, after six months. Life's strange.
Then Mathew and I worked on many assignments in class. Because of his connections, I landed a very valuable summer internship as well. But after graduation? Nothing. I left no contact for him to call me again.
Why would I? Who keeps up with their past college crush—especially one they come to realize they never had a chance with?
My poor 23-year-old heart couldn't take that.
And look at him now, in the city of Berlin.
"You changed your number. I thought we'd never see each other again," he murmurs, low tone.
I laugh unsteadily, trying to dispel the awkwardness. "Yeah… things happened."
Wow. Did he just get hottter with the years gone by? Get your head together, Anaya. You're not that crazy college student anymore.
"So," he begins again, "what brings you to S.Studio? I spotted you being introduced by the notorious Mr. Louis Laurent."
There's a question in his voice—but his eyes betray that he already knows.
I smile. "Why? Surprised I was able to make it under Director Laurent's wings?"
He chuckles, shaking his head. "If you hadn't, I'd be more surprised. Ms. Networking Queen always manages to get in.
Ah, Ms. Networking Queen. A freshman-year nickname. I'd talk to anyone, I had all of everyone's social media, and somehow went from socially awkward Anaya to someone… something. Connected. That nickname altered my life more than I'd like to admit.
"Got to live up to the title, right?" I grin. "But what about you? I thought you were going to join your father's empire."
He scratches the back of his neck. "Got kicked out two years ago."
My jaw falls. "You mean literally?"
He nods. "We had a huge fight over his business ethics. He told me, and I quote, 'If you think you're so smart, start your own damn company and make it big.'"
That's exactly something that would get Mathew Huang riled up. The man lived on challenges.
"So. you did it?"
He nods sheepishly. "AAn Boutiques."
And I nearly stagger.
"You mean the AAn Boutiques? The one RLV Fashion acquired for 5 billion euros two months ago? One of the sponsors of Winter's Gaze?" My jaw actually drops.
His ears turn pink as he nods again.
I laugh. Of all destiny's surprises. My college crush, allegedly the heir, actually made it—albeit alone.
"You're something, Mathew Huang. I've modeled your designs. The cut, the fabric—beautiful. So tell me," I say playfully, getting in close, "how do you do it? Did you steal someone else's ideas or find a secret magical designer?"
He bursts out laughing and covers his mouth—probably to keep the high-society onlookers from getting scandalized.
"You really haven't changed," he tells me.
I smile. "Why fix what pays the bills?"
He nods. "That quick wit was always hard to forget."
The music is gathering behind us, and I glance over at the dance floor. We're already on the second song. Time sure flew.
"You still like dancing?" he asks.
He is going to ask for dance?
No. Don't be sentimental, Anaya. Mathew always remembered things—he was that kind of guy. Until he broke hearts with the same charm.
"Yes, but I can't dance alone, can I?" I tease.
He extends his hand and bows, both refined and dramatic. "Then, Madame Fernandes, would I have the pleasure?"
His accent is too perfect. I smile, holding out my hand. "Only if you don't mind maintaining my pace."
He meets my gaze. "I'll maintain it perfectly."
His voice is… gentler than I expected.
I don't know it, and we're dancing. His hand is clenched on my waist, mine around the curve of his shoulder. It's muscle memory—instinct. We laugh. College coursework. That disastrous prom.
He twirls me around. "We didn't get to dance that night."
"No. You asked the college queen to be your dance partner at college in front of the whole college, remember? I had my gay best friend on my arm."
Bitterness leaks into my saccharine tone.
He lets out his breath. "Yeah. that happened."
"Are you and your prom queen still together?" I ask, my tone level. "Half the campus believed you'd get married."
He chuckles. "We never even went out." He then sweeps me up off the ground like I'm made of feathers. I let out a little laugh as I perch on his shoulders.
"Shame. You two were cute together."
He says nothing. Just sets me down again. Something tightens in my chest.
"Holding a grudge, are you?" he growls, spinning me again, this time with my back pressed to his chest.
"What grudge, Mathew? We were just prom dance practicing friends." Sweet smile. Not sweet words.
He spins me back around—just as the music stops.
I scowl. The entire hall appears as confused.
I step away. "Catch up with you later. I have an investigation to perform."
He opens his mouth to say something but I'm already walking away.
After all, I arranged this venue. And since we have so many VIPs here, a casual disruption like this is not a possibility.
As I reach the orchestra pit, Director Louis and three senior managers are already sitting there. His expression is as gloomy as a thunderstorm.
"Something go wrong?" I say lightly.
He takes a deep breath. "Water was spilled on the piano."
"Huh? Who?"
The pianist looks haunted. "I was playing and someone tripped while passing by. Dropped water on the keys. I'm so sorry."
Director Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. Even the General Manager is here—sweating and pale.
"It's a high-profile event," mutters the Finance Senior Manager. "The dance segment is critical."
I glance around—guests are visibly displeased.
Rolling closer to Director Louis, I whisper, "Why not get Ms. Ana Margaret to sing a couple of songs?"
He leans in an eyebrow. "Ana Margaret? You think she'll agree to do something at the last minute?"
"If you appeal to her charm, I don't believe she'll say no."
Ana Margaret—a 47-year-old British opera singer who is popular among high society. She has a reported weakness for older men with charming smiles and green eyes. Which… speaks volumes about her past marriages.
"You're asking me to seduce a woman? I'm a married man," he declares, scandalized.
I smile innocently. "Don't make me remind you of all the arrogant actors you made me deal with. This is just your turn."
He regards me aghast, untying his tie. "You sneaky little rat. I've been letting you get away with too much."
I grin. "You can—"
"—You little sly rat, I'm being too lenient on you these days, ain't I?"
I grin even wider, "You can punish me by giving me a raise later."
He snorts with derision, already fidgeting his cufflinks and smoothing out his face into the suave, slightly creased, 'silver fox' persona.
It's quite hilarious how fast he can switch from 'Marketing Tyrant' to 'Smooth Politician.' I curse under my breath as he heads towards Ms. Ana Margaret's table, "Please let her be frail for emerald-eyed old men tonight."
The senior managers are still huddled together resembling their investment portfolio just collapsed, and the pianist is silently sobbing over the death of his beloved keys like a war widow.
I take a deep breath and push up the neckline of my blouse, straightening my shoulders. Crisis management: accomplished.
My eyes fell on the piano keys, a knot of unfamiliarity curled in my stomach. It is a conscious mistake but why and who would do so?
Every one of my team were working in groups to help each other out and then I had the usual piercing glare on my back.
When I turn my head to the side, near certain who it is going to be, my eyes meet those ice blue eyes that seemed to be putting holes in a man's soul at me.
I raise my eyebrow and he grins smugly and fuck, I shouldn't have tried lip reading-
"impressive work, Anaya."