Chapter 4: The Drink, The Billionaire, The Game
Chapter 4: The Drink, The Billionaire, The Game
GLORIA'S POV
The atmosphere at the gala is completely packed, suffused with glamorous excess—sleek gowns shimmering under the chandeliers, the sharp scent of expensive perfumes and cigars weaving together like competing arias in a decadent opera of wealth. Furious, expensive cars line the front driveway in unapologetic exhibition, each one a glinting beast snarling for attention.
I step out of the Lamborghini, one silver-heeled foot touching down on the velvet carpeting as David clasps my hand. His grip is firm, too aware of the cameras flashing all around, too practiced. His tuxedo is sleek and tailored, hugging his tall frame perfectly, and from the outside, we must look like the picture of a power couple. But the way his eyes search my face—anxious, yearning, almost reverent—makes me flinch inside. It’s too much. He never looks at me like that. Not unless he needs something. Not unless he’s trying to control the optics. And tonight, the optics matter.
I force a polite smile as he helps me up the last step. His attention is... uncomfortable. It’s giving me the shivers, crawling under my skin in the worst way. Five days. It's been five agonizing, sleepless, pulse-quickening days since that night in the underground club—the kind of club people whispered about behind closed doors, the kind with no sign on the door and no limits once you entered. Since he—whoever the hell he was—fucked me like I was nothing but his personal obsession. Like I was meant to be owned.
And fuck, it was glorious.
I’ve tried to erase it from my memory. I really have. I’ve gone on long walks, I’ve taken longer baths. But none of it works. My fingers can’t replicate the way his did. My toys feel pitiful compared to the violent elegance of his cock. And worst of all, David—David has no clue that his kisses feel like apologetic nudges next to that man’s devouring mouth. That stranger didn’t just take me. He possessed me. Bent me over and carved me open, soul-deep. Made me see myself in a way I didn’t want to admit.
And now? I’m left craving the unholy ache of it. I need someone who can own me like that permanently. Someone who doesn't just play the role of husband. Someone who knows exactly where my soul breaks and is eager to dig their hands into the cracks. But no—David's too busy orchestrating his victory parade.
He leads me into the gala, pretending not to notice the dozens of reporters shouting questions and blinding us with flashes. Inside, the hall stretches wide like a jeweled cathedral. Massive chandeliers throw golden light across every inch of polished marble, and the air hums with money—billions of it, circulating in tailored suits and couture gowns. Everyone is talking. Loud, boisterous, performative. It’s a stock market of egos, all buying and selling influence in real time.
David kisses my cheek. A soft, practiced peck. His smile is wide, that same too-perfect grin he reserves for shareholders and social media posts. "Just relax, okay? You can order anything you want. They’ll treat you with the respect you deserve," he says, speaking like a man who just handed me a leash with my name engraved in diamonds.
"You’re the wife of the CEO of Davidson Enterprises." He says that part with a kind of victorious smugness that makes my stomach twist.
I flash him a smile as fake as the lashes on half the women in the room and nod. He disappears into the crowd almost instantly, shaking hands, slapping backs, probably getting congratulated on whatever massive deal this whole event is supposed to be celebrating. Something about offshore assets, mergers, and private equity—I don’t know, I stopped listening a long time ago.
I exhale, finally alone, perching carefully on one of the velvet-cushioned chairs near a table full of crystal. My dress feels tighter than it should, or maybe it’s just the tension squeezing my ribs. I pull out my phone and start typing something—anything—to ground myself.
That’s when the waiter arrives.
"Hello, ma'am. I'm sorry—I was asked to drop this off for you," he says, placing a glass of dark red wine in front of me.
I frown, blinking up at him. The liquid shimmers ominously under the light.
"What?" I murmur. "David?"
The waiter just smiles politely. "I was also asked to give you this," he adds, handing over a small folded paper with an elegant black ink script on the outside. Just my name. No flourish. No last name. Just Gloria.
My pulse trips.
I glance at the waiter again, puzzled. “I... wasn’t expecting anything. Are you sure this is for me?”
He chuckles lightly. "Oh, it’s nothing. The young man who sent it asked me to pass it along discreetly. And, well, he drew this for you," the waiter says, a little amused.
I frown again, curiosity burning a slow, dangerous trail through me.
"What young man?" I ask.
The waiter turns his head slightly, gesturing with a nod.
And I see him.
I gasp. A quiet, involuntary breath that rushes out of me before I can catch it. The world tilts a little. There he is, seated with unnerving calm at one of the most exclusive tables in the room, surrounded by men and women in suits that probably cost more than some condos. He’s not just handsome—he’s impossible. Devastating. Magnetic. A creature of cool fire, with ice in his eyes and command in his posture.
Tristan Vale.
No. No way. Am I hallucinating?
That’s the CEO of Rosemount Enterprises. One of the youngest trillionaires on record. The man whose face is plastered on high-end business magazines, usually captioned with something like “The Untouchable Visionary” or “The Cold King of Commerce.”
And he just sent me a drink.
I stare at the glass like it might explode. What the actual fuck? Is this real?
I chuckle nervously, trying to recover some sense of sanity. "That’s... very sweet," I tell the waiter, "but can you return it? Tell him I appreciate it, but I can’t accept it."
The waiter grins wider. “He predicted you’d say that,” he replies, “and asked me to tell you ahead of time: he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
My throat tightens. I glance back at Tristan, and he’s watching me—cool, still, almost feline in the way he studies me. Then his lips move.
A whisper I can’t hear, but I see it.
"Mine."
My breath hitches. I blink hard. What?
Did he just say—did he just mouth—Mine?
My heart’s galloping now, erratic and fevered. Heat curls in my stomach, dragging something primal up from the deep dark place I’ve been trying to bury all week. The way he looks at me—confident, calm, unblinking—he’s not flirting. He’s not testing. He’s declaring.
I raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress the dry, bitter thought rising inside me.
Is he fucking stupid?
Because he has no idea what kind of dangerous game he’s just started.