The Langford Gala was a masquerade of power.

Diamonds glittered like frost on the necks of heiresses. Billionaires laughed over vintage wine like the world hadn't burned last year. Waitstaff glided like ghosts, careful not to be seen. And up high, in a golden ballroom that smelled of lilac and money, Grayson Langford stood like a king surveying a kingdom he didn't want.

Then he saw her.

At the edge of the ballroom-half-hidden behind a curtain of velvet-stood a woman who didn't belong. Not because she was out of place. No. Because she was too real.

She wasn't powdered or painted, just flushed with warmth and wrapped in a gown the color of blood roses. Her curves weren't filtered or fragile; they were full, womanly, sensual. Her dark hair was swept up in a way that suggested haste, like she didn't mean to be there. Like she was hiding.

And Grayson's gaze locked on her like gravity.

She turned slightly, revealing a profile sculpted by shadows and candlelight. Her mask-a delicate lace piece tied with black satin-barely covered anything. He could still see the tension in her throat, the bite of her lower lip, the way her fingers clutched a champagne flute like she'd stolen it.

She wasn't on the guest list.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

But he didn't care.

Grayson moved through the crowd like smoke, the noise and laughter parting around him. She didn't notice him until he was right behind her, his voice like midnight silk.

"You don't look like you belong to this circus," he said.

She froze.

Her head turned slowly, and he caught the flicker of panic before she masked it with a coy, forced smile.

"Maybe I don't," she replied. Her voice was low, husky, unsure. And fuck, it hit him somewhere low and hot.

He stepped closer, just enough for her to feel his breath at her neck.

"Then who do you belong to?" he murmured.

A pause. The music swelled around them. She stared up at him-deep brown eyes lit with fear and defiance.

"No one," she whispered. "I'm just... passing through."

God, she had no idea who she was talking to.

He could've pressed. He could've had security drag her out or find out where she'd come from. But there was something about her-something sharp beneath the softness. She wasn't trying to fool anyone. She didn't have the polish of the women here, but she had something else.

Authenticity. Fire. Hunger.

And it made him hard.

"I'm Grayson," he said, extending a hand. "And I don't believe in passing through."

She stared at his hand like it might burn her.

"Bella," she lied. Not Isabella. Not Izzy Reyes, daughter of a hotel maid and an absent father. Just Bella-someone who could wear silk and sip champagne and belong.

He took her hand and didn't let go.

"Dance with me," he said.

"I don't know how," she said too fast.

"I'll lead."

He pulled her into the crowd before she could say no, one hand at her waist, the other laced through hers. Her breath hitched as her chest brushed his. And Grayson, usually so composed, felt something primal crawl up his spine.

She was all warm skin and soft curves, and her scent-jasmine and something wild-wrapped around him like a memory he hadn't made yet.

"You're trembling," he murmured, brushing his thumb along her back.

"It's cold," she lied again.

"No," he said, dipping his head lower, lips grazing the shell of her ear. "It's me."

Her gasp was barely audible-but he felt it, the way her body tightened in his arms. She didn't pull away.

She leaned in.

And that was all the invitation he needed.

He spun her, gently, then caught her again-closer this time, her thigh grazing his. The music faded. The world blurred.

"I shouldn't be here," she said, her voice cracking.

"Neither should I," he confessed.

And then-because he didn't want the spell to break-he led her off the floor. Not toward the exit.

Toward the lift.

The penthouse suite opened like a breathless promise. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows that captured the city like a glittering constellation. A bottle of Cristal on ice, untouched.

Bella stood near the door, hands trembling now for real.

She should run.

She should tell him the truth.

But then he turned, and his eyes had that look-like he wanted to ruin her. Worship her. Break all his rules.

And she wanted to be broken.

He stepped closer. She didn't move.

"You lied," he said quietly.

She flinched.

"You said you didn't belong," he added. "But you do. Here. With me."

Then he kissed her.

It wasn't soft.

It was possession-hot and claiming. She gasped into his mouth, and he took advantage, sliding his tongue against hers, gripping her waist hard enough to bruise.

She melted.

Her hands tangled in his jacket, pushing it off. He tore her gloves away, then slid his hands under her gown, up her thighs, gripping her ass and lifting her with ease.

She wrapped her legs around him, moaning into his neck.

He carried her to the bed, laying her down like she was something priceless.

Then he looked at her.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

She didn't.

Instead, she reached behind her neck, found the clasp of the borrowed gown, and let it fall from her shoulders like petals.

No bra. Just dusky nipples and trembling breaths.

His restraint shattered.

He dragged his mouth down her neck, across her chest, sucking one nipple until she cried out, arching under him.

His hands explored every inch-hungry, reverent. Her skin was soft and fevered beneath his palms.

She moaned when he slid her panties down, gasping when his fingers teased her folds.

"You're soaked," he growled, sliding two fingers inside.

"Grayson-" she whimpered.

"That's right," he said, kissing her again, deeper. "Say my name when you come."

He kissed down her stomach, settling between her thighs, and she froze.

"No one's ever-" she started.

He looked up. "They're fools."

And then he devoured her.

Tongue swirling, lips sucking, fingers stroking in rhythm until she writhed under him, fingers clawing at the sheets.

She shattered with a cry, her whole body shaking, his name a broken sound on her lips.

He kissed her through it, slower now, coaxing every last wave.

Then he pulled away, and she reached for him, but-

The door slammed open.

"Grayson, what the..."

A woman stood in the doorway, heels clicking, ice-blue eyes widening.

Vivienne Langford.

His sister.

His world stopped.

Bella scrambled for the blanket, but the damage was done.

Vivienne's eyes narrowed.

"Daddy's going to love this," she said with venom.

Grayson stood, breathing hard, shirt half-undone, hair wild.

"Viv-get the fuck out."

But she was already gone.

Bella clutched the sheet to her chest, trembling-not from the orgasm, but from the aftermath.

"What have I done?" she whispered.

Grayson looked at her.

And for the first time that night-he had no answer.