Chapter 2 The Gala
Aurora:
I keep telling myself it’s just another assignment. Just another night, another glass of fake smiles and good lighting.
But the second I step fully into the ballroom, it feels like walking into someone else’s dream. Everything gleams, crystal chandeliers, mirrored pillars, a live string quartet tucked beneath a staircase made of glass. Seattle doesn’t usually shine like this. It rains, it sulks. Tonight it glows.
Maggie loops her arm through mine, whispering, “Okay, Ms. Investigative Goddess. Cameras up, morals down.”
I grin despite myself. “Focus. We’re here to work.”
“Sure,” she says, eyes already scanning for champagne. “Work looks thirsty.”
We make our way through the crowd, pretending to care about charity speeches while my recorder hums quietly in my clutch.
I jot mental notes, names, donations, suspiciously vague foundations. Every powerful smile hides a secret. Warren would be proud. Or horrified. Maybe both.
Across the ballroom, a senator I recognize from three separate fraud reports is laughing too loudly at something a donor whispers.
Senator Grant Michelsen. Publicly a reformist. Privately, an FBI investigation waiting to go public.
My fingers itch for my camera. Every few seconds, he glances toward a man in a charcoal suit, one of Kingston Industries’ legal consultants, if my research is right. The two exchange something that isn’t quite a handshake, more like a silent understanding.
I angle my phone, pretending to check messages, and snap a discreet shot. Clean. Timestamped. Another piece for my wall of names.
“Smile, Senator,” I murmur under my breath. “Let’s see if your ethics committee likes this angle.”
The orchestra drowns out my nerves. For a heartbeat, I’m not the awkward girl in a borrowed dress. I’m the reporter who connects dots powerful men think are invisible.
Warren always said stories start in champagne halls. Tonight, I might actually find one worth ruining careers over.
Then I see him again.
Levi Kingston.
He’s standing near the stage, tall and still in a way that draws attention without asking for it. The black suit fits too perfectly, and when the light hits him, something golden flashes under the surface, confidence, power, danger. He’s talking to investors, smiling the polite smile of a man who’s mastered pretending.
For a moment, I forget how to move.
Maggie follows my gaze and groans softly. “Of course it’s him. He’s the headline version of temptation.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Please. The man can hear a heartbeat from a mile away.”
She wanders off toward the buffet, leaving me alone near the bar.
I order water, because alcohol and journalism don’t mix, then pretend to scroll through my notes while watching a pair of executives discuss “offshore diversification.”
Their tone says legal, their eyes say laundering. I angle my phone camera, perfect shot.
“Photographing the donors?”
A voice slides in smooth and low from behind me.
I turn, already ready with a snarky reply and there he is.
Up close, Levi Kingston is worse. Or better. His presence has gravity. People look at him like he’s the sun, but I feel more like he’s the tide pulling everything quietly closer.
“Press,” I say, showing my badge. “Occupational hazard.”
He studies it, then me. “Entertainment section?”
“Something like that.”
He smiles, slow and practiced. “Then you’ll have to make me sound entertaining.”
I take a sip of water I suddenly don’t taste. “Depends. Are you planning on doing anything scandalous tonight?”
“Depends who’s watching,” he says.
The way he says it shouldn’t make my pulse jump, but it does.
I look away first. “You must enjoy being the story.”
“Not tonight,” he says. “Tonight, I’d rather read someone else’s.”
My throat goes dry. I tell myself it’s the air-conditioning.
Before I can think of an exit, the host taps a mic, announcing the opening waltz. Couples begin drifting toward the dance floor.
Maggie waves from across the room, mouthing go! and shoving me forward before I can protest.
Levi offers his hand. “For the sake of journalism.”
I should refuse but I don’t.
His palm is warm against mine, steady. As soon as our hands touch, a shiver rolls down my spine. The music wraps around us, slow and deliberate. I’ve danced before, awkward weddings, college parties but never like this.
Every step feels rehearsed, though we’ve never met. His hand at my back is firm, guiding, careful. The room fades into gold blur.
“Not bad for an investigative reporter,” he murmurs.
“I multitask.”
“Dangerous skill.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I look up, and our eyes catch again. The pull is instant, deep. Something in my chest stirs, the faint hum of that same invisible thread I won’t understand until it’s too late.
The air between us changes. Softer, heavier. I can feel his heartbeat where our hands touch, perfectly matched to mine.
The song ends, applause scatters, but neither of us moves right away.
He clears his throat, letting go first. “Careful, Ms. Anderson. If you keep staring like that, people will start rumors.”
I smile to cover the rush of heat in my cheeks. “Maybe that’s the point.”
He studies me for a second longer, like he’s memorizing something he shouldn’t. Then someone calls his name, a board member, investor, maybe fate itself and he turns away.
I exhale slowly, trying to steady the chaos in my chest. My job is to expose corruption, not catch feelings. Especially not for the man at the center of both.
Maggie returns, eyes sparkling. “You danced with Kingston. Are we fired or famous?”
“Neither yet,” I say. “But something tells me this story just got interesting.”
What I don’t tell her is that my hands are still trembling, or that I can still feel his touch like an afterimage on my skin.
Later tonight, the champagne will run out, the city lights will blur, and I’ll make a decision that changes everything.
But right now, under chandeliers and music and too many secrets, Levi Kingston looks at me from across the room again and I don’t look away.