PRUDENCE POV
A week passed. Seven days of militant focus. I became a machine of pure efficiency. I scheduled back-to-back meetings from 7 a.m. until 7 p.m., leaving no gap for my mind to wander. I approved marketing campaigns, signed off on R&D budgets, and conducted performance reviews with the empathetic warmth of a scalpel. I was the perfect CEO. Impenetrable. Untouchable.
And it was all a lie.
He was there, a constant, low-level hum beneath the surface of my thoughts, like the vibration of a distant engine you can feel through the soles of your feet. I tried all my possible best to get him away but I couldn't find the perfect match. All the men I saw kind of looked like a Dracula. It was in the quiet moments when I was waiting for my coffee to brew, when the elevator was descending, in the split second before sleep claimed me, that his face would flash behind my eyes. That smirk. Those storm-gray eyes.
I was fighting a ghost, and the battlefield was my own mind.
It was on the eighth day that the invitation arrived, a physical object of thick, cream-colored cardstock that felt like a verdict. It was for the Annual Children's Hope Foundation Gala, the city's most prestigious charity event. I attended every year. It was a necessary piece of corporate theater, a place to see and be seen, to network with donors and politicians under the guise of philanthropy.
Normally, I would have glanced at it, handed it to Anya to RSVP, and selected a gown from my usual designer. A uniform for the occasion.
This year was different.
Because scrawled in a bold, slashing script at the bottom of the invitation, beneath the pre-printed details, was a note.
"Looking forward to seeing you there. I'll be saving a dance. - J.S."
My heart performed a violent, painful somersault against my ribs. He hadn't called. He hadn't emailed. He'd used this, an old-world, almost audacious method of contact that felt infinitely more personal. It was a direct challenge, bypassing all my corporate defenses.
The gala was no longer a function. It was a front line.
All through the week I was thinking about it until the day finally came
The night of the event, I stood before my reflection, and for the first time in a long time, I did not see a CEO. The woman in the mirror was a weapon. I had chosen a gown of liquid mercury, a fabric that was neither silver nor gray, but something in between, a color that shifted and moved with me, capturing and reflecting the light. It was backless, a plunge of daring vulnerability that my business suits never allowed. It was strapless, hugging my frame like a second skin before cascading to the floor in a soft pool. My hair was swept up in an intricate, severe knot that emphasized the elegant line of my neck. My jewelry was a single, flawless teardrop diamond that rested in the hollow of my throat. I looked powerful, yes. But I also looked… desirable.
It was a calculated risk. To meet him on this new battlefield, I couldn't just be his corporate equal. I had to be his match in every way.
The gala was held at the Grand Heritage Museum, under the cavernous, star-painted dome of the main hall. It was a whirl of crystal, champagne, and the low, moneyed murmur of five hundred of the city's elite. I moved through the crowd on autopilot, a fixed, polished smile on my lips, air-kissing cheeks, exchanging pleasantries. I could feel the eyes on me, the whispers. Prudence Smith. The Ice Queen of Provida. I wore the title like a crown.
But beneath the surface, every nerve was live wire. I was scanning the crowd, my senses heightened, searching for one face.
I found him near the auction block, surrounded by a small constellation of admirers. He was a study in black and white. His tuxedo was impeccably cut, a testament to the fact that he, like me, understood the power of a uniform. But unlike the other men in their uniform black, he seemed to absorb the light, a solid, magnetic presence in the shimmering room. He was listening to an older gentleman speak, his head tilted, a glass of whiskey held loosely in those calloused fingers.
As if feeling the weight of my gaze, he turned.
His eyes found mine across the crowded room. The noise, the music, the chatter, it all faded into a dull roar. The connection was instantaneous and electric, a physical jolt that stole the air from my lungs. He didn't smile. He just looked. His gaze was a slow, deliberate caress, starting from the severe knot of my hair, trailing down the line of my neck, over the bare skin of my shoulders and back, down the length of the mercury gown. It was not the look of a business rival. It was the look of a man appreciating a woman. A hungry, possessive, entirely male look that should have infuriated me.
It did. And it did something else, something I refused to name.
He excused himself from his group and began to walk toward me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape its cage. My palms felt damp. I curled them into fists, my nails biting into my flesh. Steady.
"Ms. Smith," he said, his voice a low rumble that I felt in my bones. He stopped before me, his presence overwhelming the space around us. "You look… formidable."
It was the perfect word. Not 'beautiful.' Not 'stunning.' Formidable. A word that acknowledged both the weapon and the woman.
"Justin," I replied, pleased that my voice held its usual cool composure. "I trust you're enjoying the party."
"I am now." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I believe I promised you a dance."
The orchestra was striking up a slow, swelling waltz as he spoke about the dance. It was a trap. A public dance was a statement. It was intimacy under a microscope.
"I'm not sure that's a wise idea," I said, my tone laced with professional detachment. "Our respective boards might read too much into it."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Let them read. Or are you afraid, Prudence?"
The use of my first name was a deliberate invasion. A challenge. He was calling my bluff. To refuse would be to admit fear. To accept was to step into the lion's den.
I looked up into those stormy eyes and saw the ghost of the girl in the lavender dress, standing frozen in a dark garden. I saw a parade of manageable, disposable men. I saw my own sterile, controlled life stretching out before me in an endless, lonely parade of board meetings and empty penthouse nights.
"I'm not afraid of anything, Justin," I said, and placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure. His other hand settled on the bare skin of my back. The contact was a brand. A shock of such intense, unwelcome heat that I nearly gasped. He led me onto the dance floor, his grip firm, his movements confident.
We began to move.
He was an excellent dancer, of course. He guided me with an effortless strength that was both infuriating and thrilling. I was known for my control, my precision, but in his arms, I was following. The mercury silk of my gown swirled around his legs. The world narrowed to the space between us, to the pressure of his hand on my back, the solid wall of his chest, the scent of him which smelt like clean soap, expensive whiskey, and something uniquely male, something essentially Justin.
"You've been avoiding my calls," he murmured, his breath a warm caress against my temple.
" You never called me or did you??" I replied, then I thought again and replied the second time
"I've been busy," I said, my gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder. "Running a global empire tends to fill one's calendar."
"I'm sure. But even empires have moments of ceasefire." He spun me out, then pulled me back in, closer than before. My body collided with his, a brief, shocking contact that sent a tremor through me. "I was thinking. Our companies share a common goal. Growth. Innovation. Perhaps we could discuss a more… personal alliance."
My spine went rigid. Here it was. The proposition. The part where he assumed the dance was a prelude to me ending up in his bed. The predictable arc of the powerful man. Disappointment, sharp and acidic, rose in my throat.
"I don't mix business with pleasure, Mr. Steele," I said, my voice dropping to an icy whisper. "And I am not a territory to be acquired."
He didn't look offended. He looked amused. "A personal alliance of minds, Prudence. I was going to suggest a private dinner to discuss the Tokyo flagship store integration. My team was very impressed with your head of retail." He paused, his eyes glinting. "What exactly did you think I meant?"
He had trapped me. Perfectly. He had let me reveal my own assumptions, my own defenses, and he had gracefully stepped around them. Heat flooded my cheeks. I was off-balance, and he knew it.
"Dinner is unnecessary," I managed. "My team can liaise with yours."
"But I want to liaise with you," he said, his tone losing its teasing edge, becoming serious, intent. "I'm not interested in your team, Prudence. I'm interested in you. The mind behind the empire. The woman in the mercury gown."
Well he was smart for not calling my dress silver or gray. I give him that.We think alike, then I thought again. His words were a key, turning in locks I had forgotten existed. They didn't feel like flattery. They felt like recognition.
The music swelled to a finish. We stopped moving, but he didn't release me. His hand was still on my back, his other still holding mine. We were standing in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by a hundred people, and we might as well have been completely alone. His gaze held mine, and in the stormy gray depths, I saw something that looked dangerously like genuine curiosity. And something else… a flicker of the same raw, unwelcome attraction I was fighting so desperately.
For a terrifying, exhilarating second, I forgot the rules. I forgot the vow. I forgot the pain. I was just a woman, captivated by a man.
Then, a voice cut through the spell.
"Justin! There you are! Darling, you simply must come and meet the Italian ambassador."
A beautiful, dark-haired woman in a crimson gown slid her arm possessively through Justin's. She was one of the heirlooms from the society pages. Eva something-or-other. She looked at me with a polite, dismissive smile. "Prudence. Lovely to see you. That dress is… daring."
Justin's expression shifted, the intensity replaced by a smooth, social mask. He gently extracted his hand from my back. "Eva. Of course. Prudence, if you'll excuse me."
He gave me a final, unreadable look, then allowed himself to be led away by the woman on his arm.
The spell was broken. The cold reality came crashing back. The music started up again, a jaunty, upbeat number that mocked the intensity of the waltz. The air felt cold on my skin where his hand had been.
I stood frozen, watching him go, a cocktail of humiliation, fury, and a sharp, stabbing pain I refused to acknowledge churning in my gut. He had drawn me in, made me feel seen, and then he had simply… walked away with another woman. A more suitable woman.
It was a perfect, brutal reminder. This was the game. This was always the game. I was the challenging conquest, the "formidable" novelty. But women like Eva were the safe harbor. The ones you took home to meet the ambassador.
The old walls, momentarily breached, slammed back into place, thicker and higher than ever. The ice flooded my veins, a welcome, familiar numbness.
I turned and walked away from the dance floor, my head held high, the teardrop diamond at my throat feeling like a weight. I didn't look back. I collected my coat and left the gala, the sound of the orchestra fading behind me.
In the back of my town car, watching the city lights blur past, I replayed the entire encounter. The look in his eyes, the feel of his hands, the sound of my name on his lips. And then, the image of him walking away with the woman in red.
Men are dogs. They keep proving me right with this statement. Who would dare prove me wrong
The mantra returned, but this time, it tasted like ash. Because for a few moments on that dance floor, I had wanted, more than I had wanted anything in years, to believe it was a lie.
The car pulled up to my building. I stepped out into the cool night air, my mercury gown shimmering under the porte-cochere lights. I was Prudence Smith, CEO of Provida Emporium. I was an ice sculpture. A fortress.
And as I rode the elevator up to my silent, empty penthouse, I made a new vow. Justin Steele had seen a crack. He had felt a moment of weakness. It would not happen again. The merger, the business, that could continue. But the man? The dance? The dangerous, melting warmth?
That was over.
I would freeze him out.