Chapter 428: The Dance
Emily took a deep breath and lifted her gaze once more, looking at Ace with unwavering determination. "Mr. Austin, even if you've partnered with Mr. Windsor, I still hope you'll reconsider collaborating with Mr. Borgia. Some threats run far deeper than what meets the eye. Only by joining forces can we truly counterbalance them—which benefits both you and Whitebeard Group."
Ace studied her, then shook his head. "Ms. Natasha, I appreciate your persistence, but my decision stands. However, I can assure you that whatever arrangement I have with Mr. Windsor won't favor any particular faction, nor will it obstruct your objectives. Even without a partnership, we needn't be enemies."
His refusal left no room for negotiation. The resolve in Emily's eyes dimmed slightly. She should have anticipated this—once Whitebeard Group's enigmatic CEO made up his mind, he wouldn't easily waver.
No point in wasting more effort. Emily inclined her head politely. "Since you've made your decision, Mr. Austin, I won't impose further. I wish Whitebeard Group continued success, and you and Mr. Windsor a fruitful partnership."
With that, she turned to leave with Fiona. The plan to recruit Ace had hit a dead end for now. She needed to return immediately and adjust her strategy, reconnect with the Campbell family's old guard. She couldn't squander more time at this gala—and more critically, couldn't linger within Charles's line of sight, lest her composure shatter completely.
But Ace's voice stopped her. "Ms. Natasha, a moment."
She paused mid-step.
"The evening has barely begun. Since you've graced us with your presence, why rush off? How about one dance—as a courtesy to your host?"
The request sounded polite, but it was clearly a test.
Every eye in the ballroom swiveled toward them. Gerald's gaze glinted with amusement. Charles's entire frame tensed, the tenderness in his eyes replaced by raw jealousy.
He'd always known Emily was exceptional—that men would covet her. Now she was Sebastian Borgia's sole heir, and Sebastian commanded Hell's Angels, Eldoria's most powerful organization. Winning Natasha's favor meant potential control over Hell's Angels itself.
Who could resist such a prize?
Emily hesitated, torn.
Refusing would be a slight against Ace, closing the door on any future possibility. Accepting meant enduring close proximity to him under Charles's scorching stare—fighting to suppress the turmoil threatening to consume her.
Fiona murmured from behind, "Ms. Natasha, don't feel obligated. I can decline on your behalf if you'd prefer."
Emily drew a steadying breath, forcing down the rising tide inside her. She turned slowly. "Since you've so graciously invited me, Mr. Austin, it would be rude to refuse."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Ace's features. He gestured to the musicians, and a gentle waltz began to fill the air.
The lighting dimmed into soft amber tones, casting the ballroom in romantic shadow. Ace descended the platform with measured steps and extended his hand toward Emily, his bearing refined and unhurried. "Shall we?"
Emily wavered, then lightly placed her hand in his palm. His hand was broad and warm—achingly similar to Charles's touch—and the familiarity sent a tremor through her fingertips.
Ace noticed her stiffness but said nothing, simply guiding her onto the dance floor. His movements were fluid and effortless, leading her with practiced ease while maintaining perfect propriety. Yet the closeness was unavoidable.
Emily forced herself to concentrate, matching his rhythm. Her black velvet gown swirled around her like a midnight rose—elegant, glacial. The mask concealed the panic in her eyes but couldn't hide the tension in her shoulders, nor the indescribable ache blooming in her chest.
Beyond the dance floor, Charles remained seated, his gaze locked on the couple with unblinking intensity. His breathing grew labored.
He knew this was wrong—knew he shouldn't feel jealous, shouldn't lose control, shouldn't cause Emily trouble. But he couldn't help himself. He only had a year left to live. How desperately he wanted to cross that floor, take Ace's place, hold her hand, let her rest against his shoulder. How badly he wanted to tell her he'd thought of nothing but her for three endless years.
Nathan noticed his distress and whispered urgently, "Mr. Windsor, please calm down. Don't do anything rash. Your condition—"
"How can I stay calm watching her dance with another man?" Charles's voice cracked, hoarse and broken, jealousy flooding his eyes until they nearly overflowed.
Watching his employer's frail yet obstinate state, Nathan sighed helplessly, consumed by worry but powerless to intervene.
At the dance floor's center, the waltz wound toward its conclusion. Emily maintained her distant posture throughout. Ace sensed her deliberate detachment, and though a knowing gleam entered his eyes, he didn't comment. As the final notes faded, he released her hand and bowed with polished grace. "Ms. Natasha dances beautifully indeed."
Emily nodded coolly, her tone betraying no emotion. "You're too kind, Mr. Austin. I should take my leave now."
This time Ace didn't object, merely smiled and inclined his head. "Of course. I won't keep you. Should you ever need anything in the future, don't hesitate to reach out. Even without a formal partnership, no need to be strangers."
Emily offered no response. She turned toward Fiona, her black gown carving a cold arc through the ambient light. She didn't spare Charles another glance—as if the man whose burning stare followed her every movement were nothing more than an irrelevant passerby.
But only she knew the truth. Her heart churned like a violent sea. Charles's gaze felt like searing flame, tracking her retreat, making her skin prickle with awareness.
"Ms. Natasha, let's go." Fiona stepped forward quickly, her vigilant gaze sweeping the ballroom—lingering particularly on Charles's location. She spoke in a low murmur.
That obsessive, malevolent look in his eyes—she'd seen it countless times before. She wondered when Natasha had crossed paths with that man.