Chapter 39
Nora's POV
Back at the apartment, I stood in front of my bedroom closet, my fingers landing on a deep blue suit dress. I pulled it out and held it up to the mirror. The fabric was simple but well-cut, with a modest neckline. Not stunning, but decent enough.
This'll have to do.
I laid it across my bed and rummaged through my jewelry box—mostly cheap silver pieces. I settled on small pearl studs.
I packed the invitation Jeremy had sent me into my purse.
That evening, I pulled into the Four Seasons valet lane. The valet gave me a polite smile.
"Good evening, miss. The ballroom is on the second floor."
I stepped out, smoothing the front of my suit dress. I'd applied light makeup: a touch of mascara, a hint of blush, nude lipstick. Nothing that would draw too much attention.
Inside, the ballroom opened up before me like a magazine spread. Soft golden light spilled from chandeliers overhead, casting everything in a warm glow. A string quartet played quietly in one corner. Guests mingled near a champagne fountain that sparkled like liquid gold.
I took a breath and stepped inside, my gaze sweeping over the crowd almost instinctively.
And then I saw him.
Julian stood near the center of the room, surrounded by a small group of men in expensive suits. Even from across the ballroom, he was impossible to miss. He looked completely at ease in this world of wealth and power.
I tried to focus on anything other than Julian.
I didn't succeed.
Soon, as if sensing something, he scanned his surroundings before his gaze settled on me.
Our eyes met, and for a split second, everything else fell away. He didn't exactly smile—his expression shifted from initial confusion to something softer. I guessed Jeremy definitely hadn't told Julian that I would be the one he arranged to accompany him.
He inclined his head toward me—a small gesture of acknowledgment that felt oddly intimate despite the distance between us.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs. I managed a small nod in return before quickly looking away, heat flooding my cheeks.
Before I could fully recover, a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Ms. Grey?"
I turned to find a man striding toward me with an easy grin. He was in his early fifties—comfortable-looking in his tailored gray suit but not flashy. We'd crossed paths six months ago during a labor dispute at his manufacturing plant.
"Mr. Baker," I said politely, forcing a smile. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Likewise! You clean up nice!" He laughed heartily. "Last time I saw you in Blackwood, you were wearing work clothes, looking all professional and capable."
"Fieldwork doesn't leave much room for fashion," I replied dryly.
He grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing server's tray and handed one to me. "Here—try this! It's imported from France or something fancy like that."
"Thank you," I said automatically as he pressed it into my hand.
Before either of us could say anything else, a server appeared at my side dressed impeccably in black-and-white formal attire. "Ms. Grey? Mr. Sterling requests your presence."
I glanced toward Julian's direction. The softness had disappeared from his face, replaced by a tightened jaw. My stomach dropped slightly. I turned back toward Mr. Baker apologetically. "I'm sorry, I have to—"
"Go ahead!" he said. "Don't keep important people waiting!"
I followed where the server gestured, weaving through the crowd toward where Julian stood. Despite the distance between us, I could feel the weight of those silver-gray eyes resting squarely on my shoulders.
When I finally reached him, Julian's tension vanished.
"Mr. Sterling," I said quietly, my voice steady and professional despite the nerves beneath the surface.
He gestured vaguely toward the group of executives hovering nearby. "Nora. Would you mind helping with a photograph? Ethan never gets them right."
Ethan smiled awkwardly.
So I'm here to play photographer. A flicker of disappointment passed through me—I had thought he called me over because there was something more important he needed me to do—but I pushed it aside.
"Of course," I agreed.
Ethan handed over an expensive camera wordlessly, then took the champagne from my hand.
I raised the camera to eye level, adjusting the settings and focusing the lens. The flash burst bright momentarily, illuminating faces frozen in smiles—forced laughter that felt hollow and empty.
After I lowered the camera from taking the final shot, I expected Julian to turn away, to return to mingling with donors like he'd been doing before.
But he didn't. He dispersed the important people around him.
He came to stand before me, close enough that I could catch the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and clean that made my pulse skip despite my best efforts to remain composed.
"Don't drink anything someone hands you," he said quietly, his tone casual but edged with something sharper beneath the surface.
I blinked up at him in surprise. "What?"
His gaze flicked briefly toward where Baker had been standing earlier before returning to mine. "At these events, people have motives. Not everyone here has your best interests at heart."
That makes sense, I thought, though part of me wanted to protest that I knew Baker somewhat.
"Juice works too," he added after a beat, holding out a glass filled with pale golden liquid.
I stared at it for a moment before taking it from him cautiously. "You're telling me not to trust drinks from strangers… while handing me a drink?"
The corner of his mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile but close enough to send warmth flooding through my chest. "This one came from me. It's safe." Then he paused deliberately. "You don't have to drink it if you don't want to."
There was something teasing in his tone now—something playful and unexpectedly human.
I raised the glass to my lips and took a small sip. The taste was sweet and crisp with a hint of citrus lingering on my tongue.
"It's good," I admitted quietly.
"Good."
We stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds—the air between us charged with something I couldn't quite name but felt acutely aware of nonetheless.
Then Julian's gaze traced over my face slowly—lingering on details I hadn't realized he'd been paying attention to—and he said quietly: "You look beautiful tonight."
My breath caught audibly—a soft intake of air sharp and sudden—and color flooded my cheeks, spreading rapidly down my neck.
"Thank you… for saying that," I murmured barely audible above the ambient noise surrounding us.
His gaze held mine for another long moment—silver-gray eyes warm and intent—and I felt my ears burning hot at the tips.
Before I could gather my scattered thoughts, a booming voice cut through the moment like a knife:
"Mr. Sterling! There you are!"
Julian's expression shifted instantly—the warmth in his eyes cooling into polite detachment as he turned toward the source of the interruption.
A man in his early fifties approached with an outstretched hand and a smile that looked practiced rather than genuine. From his confident stride to the gleam of his Patek Philippe watch, everything about him screamed wealth and power.
Kyle's father, Thomas Vaughn.