The room hadn't stopped watching them.
Arielle was fully aware—of the eyes, the whispers, the heat of Dominic's gaze trailing behind her like a shadow she couldn't shake.
She thrived on it.
Dominic? Not so much.
She made her way toward the long marble bar with a sway in her hips that could disrupt economies. Her fingers tapped once against the glass, summoning the bartender like royalty. He moved fast.
"Something red. Something wicked," she ordered, her voice a sultry thread in the air.
Dominic arrived beside her, silent.
She didn't look at him as she picked up her drink, swirling the crimson liquid inside like she was considering casting a spell.
"You don't like parties, do you?" she asked casually, still not looking at him.
"I like control."
She turned then, slow and deliberate. "You mean… you don't like attention you can't command."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he took the drink from her hand and set it down.
"Arielle—"
"You're the one who told me to show up," she cut in smoothly. "You didn't say behave."
His gaze dropped to her lips, just for a moment. Enough to stir something wicked.
"I don't care how you behave," he said, voice low. "As long as you remember whose leash you're tugging."
She smirked. "Oh, darling. I don't do leashes. I do heels and havoc."
Then, with a flick of her wrist and a burst of mischief, she stood on her tiptoes, brushed her mouth near his ear, and whispered, "Unless, of course, you beg."
It hit him like a jolt.
But Dominic didn't move. He didn't even blink. His control was impeccable—except for the muscle ticking in his jaw.
"You think this is a game?" he asked quietly.
"I know it is," she said, sipping her drink. "The question is… how long before you stop pretending you're not enjoying it?"
Before he could answer, a voice over the microphone pulled the room's attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the final surprise auction of the night—an exclusive dance with the most eligible bachelor in the room… Mr. Dominic Raine."
Applause erupted. All heads turned.
Arielle's grin widened.
Dominic looked like he wanted to murder someone. Preferably the host.
But it was too late. The spotlight was already on him.
"And the starting bid is ten thousand dollars!"
Before anyone else could raise a paddle, Arielle lifted hers with one long red-nailed finger.
"Twenty," she said, loud and unapologetic.
A few gasps echoed.
Dominic's eyes met hers. Burning. Daring.
The host hesitated, then smiled nervously. "Any other bids? No? Going once, twice…"
"Sold!"
Arielle stepped forward, her heels clicking on the marble like drumbeats of defiance.
Dominic stood still.
She reached him, held out her hand, and tilted her head. "Careful, Mr. Raine. I might just lead."
He took her hand.
His grip was firm.
His smile? Dangerous.
And as he pulled her onto the dance floor, under chandeliers and the eyes of every elite guest in the city, there was only one truth:
This wasn't just a dance.
This was war in silk and suits.
And neither of them planned to lose.
The music swelled—slow, orchestral, and rich with old-world elegance.
Arielle took the first step onto the dance floor, chin high, eyes gleaming like polished glass. The guests circled around like moths drawn to scandal. Her red dress clung to every step, a trail of silk behind her.
Dominic followed, every inch of him composed and lethal. The world knew him as the CEO who crushed competition. Tonight, he looked like the man who could crush her—but wasn't quite sure if he wanted to.
He took her hand. His touch was warm, confident, but not invasive.
She leaned in slightly. "Are you going to lead, or just stand there and brood?.
His other hand slid to her waist, firm but controlled.
"I'll lead," he said coolly. "Try to keep up."
The music began.
Their bodies moved in sync, a perfect contradiction. Her steps were light, flirtatious, dipped in mischief. His were precise, powerful—full of unspoken restraint.
"You're tense," she murmured, brushing too close on the turn. "Afraid you'll like this?"
He didn't answer.
But the tightening of his fingers on her waist was answer enough.
The spin came next—Arielle twirled once, deliberately slow, letting the room admire the spectacle she'd become. When she returned to him, she landed with a soft thud against his chest.
He didn't budge.
Only looked down at her. Hard.
"You enjoy making scenes."
She smirked. "Only when the audience is worth it."
He leaned in, breath grazing her ear. "Keep pushing, and I'll forget we're in public."
Her skin prickled.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
And her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
But she refused to show it.
"You keep talking like you scare me, Raine," she whispered, lips near his jaw. "Maybe you haven't noticed—I like danger."
He pulled her closer, one hand sliding lower on her back than was proper. "Good," he said darkly. "Then you'll love what comes next."
Their eyes locked.
For a moment, the world blurred.
It wasn't a dance anymore. It was a standoff wrapped in violins.
Arielle tilted her head, daring him. "Getting bold, aren't we?"
His voice was low. "You started this."
"And you'll finish it?" she challenged.
He dipped her—sudden, dramatic.
Gasps around the room.
Her breath caught. The ceiling spun. But his arm was steel behind her back.
"I always finish what I start," he said.
And then… he pulled her up.
Too slow.
Too deliberate.
His face was only inches from hers. His breath touched her lips. But he didn't kiss her.
Instead, he held her there, suspended between defiance and desire.
She could feel his control. Taste it.
And it was driving her insane.
When the music ended, they didn't move.
Not right away.
The applause broke the moment.
Arielle stepped back first, fixing her hair like nothing had happened.
Dominic offered no expression. Just turned and walked away.
Leaving her breathless.
Wanting.
And furious that she did.