Chapter 7: The Gala
Noah had never worn anything that cost more than a month of rent. Until now.
The suit the tailor had prepared for him fit like a second skin. Midnight-black, subtly patterned, with an open collar that showed just a hint of throat. No tie. Elias’s instructions.
He’d wanted Noah to look polished. Presentable.
But not forgettable.
When he stepped into the private car waiting outside his apartment, the driver gave him a single nod. “Mr. Voss is already inside.”
The word inside made something tighten in Noah’s chest.
Because tonight, they weren’t just in an office. They’d be seen. Together.
And Noah still didn’t know what this was. Or what it meant.
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The gala was being held at the Harrington Ballroom—glass ceilings, chandeliers like icicles, guests who sparkled like walking stock portfolios. Noah had never felt more out of place.
Until he saw Elias.
The crowd parted around him like he was gravity. He stood alone, drink untouched, wearing a black tux with a single dark satin lapel. His presence was silent, electric, undeniable.
When their eyes met across the room, something in Noah jolted.
Elias didn’t smile.
He just tilted his head.
Noah walked toward him, slow, steady. Every step felt like a dare.
“You’re late,” Elias said quietly, once he was close enough to hear over the music.
“You’re early,” Noah countered, trying not to fidget.
Elias’s gaze swept over him. “The suit fits.”
“You picked it.”
“I pick a lot of things.”
That shouldn’t have made Noah’s pulse jump.
And yet, it did.
\---
The evening blurred with introductions and forced smiles. Elias moved through the crowd like a predator at rest—controlled, polite, but never soft. He barely acknowledged anyone unless it served a purpose.
But he never let Noah stray far.
At one point, Noah turned to greet someone from the PR team and found Elias behind him. Close. A hand on his lower back—not quite a touch, but a warning.
Don’t drift.
Stay.
His breath caught.
Was this what it meant to work for Elias Voss? To be seen as his?
Noah didn’t pull away.
He didn’t lean into it, either.
Not yet.
\---
Later, under the chandelier light, Elias guided him to a quieter alcove beside the marble staircase.
“You’re performing,” Elias said.
“I’m trying not to embarrass you.”
“You’re not. But you’re tense. Why?”
Noah hesitated. “Because I don’t know what this is.”
Elias looked at him. Really looked.
“This,” he said, voice low, “is what happens when you put a match near dry kindling and pretend it won’t catch fire.”
Noah’s throat tightened. “And what happens when it burns?”
“Then we stop pretending.”
\---
They didn’t touch again that night.
But they didn’t need to.
The air between them was already crackling.
And when the car pulled up to the penthouse, and Elias said “You’ll ride back with me,” Noah didn’t argue.
He just got in.
And for the entire drive, he felt Elias’s gaze on him.
Not as a boss.
Not as a threat.
But as something much more dangerous.
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