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makes them darker, smokier. And her pinned up hair looks like it’s on the verge of falling. I’m
desperate to get my hands in it, and pull it apart.
“What do you think?”
I snap my attention back to the man in front of me. He’s been talking at me for a while, and I don’t
think I’ve caught a word. This isn’t me. Not at all. I’m always on, always negotiating, always looking
for the next opportunity. But tonight, I can’t focus on anything but her. And that’s a big fucking problem
since the collective net worth in this ballroom is a cool Trillion.
I smile easily at the man…what the fuck is his name?“Let me think on it. Why don’t you send me
all the details, and I’ll take a look?”
He nods enthusiastically, snatching my business card out of my hand so fast the thick card stock
slices into my thumb. I have no idea what he was yammering on about, and I have no clue what’s
going to hit my inbox in the morning. But it’s a problem for another day.
At ten-thousand a plate, the people in this room are rich and generous, at least generous enough to
buy a plate and put on their fancy clothes. The bigger donors will dole out extra funds as the night
progresses. All it takes is a little flattery, and I’ll have fifty million in checks in my hands by the end
of the night. The hospital’s donor engagement team has been working overtime tonight, only calling
me in to nudge the odd holdout here and there.
I move to one of the bars scattered around the ballroom and snag a napkin, blotting at the blood on
my thumb. Though my attention is on the minor wound, I’m aware of Maya moving toward me,
weaving through the glitterati filling the ballroom. Her rounded hips sway through the crowd, her
natural grace drawing attention as she moves. I don’t think she has any idea how stunning she is.
She finally makes it through the throng, slumping beside me at the bar. Her skin has a weird flush
that has me on edge. “How much have you had to drink?”
“I don’t really drink,” she says, scanning the rows of bottles behind me. I really don’t like the way
she looks. If she’s not drunk, then something else is wrong. It’s making me antsy, and the fact that I’m
antsy is pissing me off. Turning, I catch the bartender’s eye, “Two waters.”
I press one of the glasses into Maya’s hand, “Drink.” She doesn’t fight me, thankfully, taking large
gulps. I take the empty glass and press the full one into her hand. “More.”
She side-eyes me but complies, sipping slower this time. She shifts awkwardly, looking down at
the toes of her sparkly black flats. “So,” she says, “I hope you’re happy with my performance this
