The Ebon Harbor yacht remained gloriously unmoored from good sense, its decks now pulsing with the arrival of Crestfall's most important moguls and their photogenic partners.
Alaric Stark and his wife Vivian—the imperious duo behind Alarviv Entertainment—swept through the entrance with the synchronized serenity of a couple who owned empires and knew exactly how many zeros that entailed.
Not far behind, Darius Stark, CEO of Stark Enterprises and Hotel Premiums, arrived conspicuously solo. His wife, the rumor mill murmured, had been detained by "setbacks"—a word that did Trojan-level damage control.
Then came Alex Cross, Doctorate of Health Affairs, CEO of MediPrivate, and the most successful surgeon Crestfall had ever produced. He was dressed with the kind of unteachable elegance that made other men reconsider their entire wardrobe.
At fifty-something, Alex boasted a body that had apparently signed a non-aggression pact with aging, his gym receipts practically laminated and displayed. His hazel eyes sparkled with the practiced warmth of a man who'd spent decades being adored, and he paused for the cameras like a benevolent king humoring his subjects before gliding into the main salon.
Mr. Jackson of Jackson Engineers arrived with a dignified nod, though his heart carried a private weight. He found himself wishing, with an ache that never fully dulled, that his old friend David were here to witness this gathering of partners and protégés, all of them walking proof of what ambition could build.
Moguls kept arriving, posing, smiling, their anticipation for the evening practically audible.
Nearby, Tiffany was conducting a very discreet transaction with a passing waiter. She slid a slim stack of bills into his pocket with the dexterity of a pickpocket working in reverse, and he responded with a polite nod and a smile that said, your secret's safe with me, ma'am.
She straightened, smoothed her crimson gown, and resumed walking with the liquid grace of a woman who knew every camera in the room was a potential ally.
Still, anxiety gnawed at her composure. Adrian still hadn't arrived. She'd dialed his number enough times to qualify as a nuisance, each call going straight to voicemail. Her lips pursed in pure frustration.
"Uh-uh, girl. This is the night to secure sugar daddies, not walk around with your face soured like expired yogurt."
Tiffany spun around, and her entire spirit did a cartwheel.
"Oh my god, Boni! You're stunning—come here!" Tiffany's brows steepled in genuine awe as she hauled Bonita into a hug.
Bonita wore a dark blue gown that poured to the floor like liquid midnight, strapless and elegantly simple, accented only by a whisper-thin silver necklace that existed almost exclusively as a glint against her collarbone.
Her hair was twisted into a deliberately messy bun, crowned with a petite circlet studded with diamonds—a fragment she'd plucked from her actual crown, because why not.
In her own mind, Bonita felt thoroughly underdressed, having scrambled to get ready at the last minute. Reality, however, begged to differ. She'd stolen half the oxygen on this yacht without even trying.
Bonita Stark was naturally, unfairly beautiful, and she moved like a queen who'd never been told otherwise—because she hadn't. Crestfall's men understood a fundamental truth: you didn't choose Bonita; she chose you. And if she did, congratulations, you'd officially won at life.
"Where is Adrian?" Tiffany asked, snagging two champagne bottles from a passing server and pressing one into Bonita's hand.
"I have no idea. I was in Randora and just rushed here," Bonita replied after a life-affirming sip.
"You finally went to Randora? Did you at least see Mr. Throne?" Tiffany's voice pitched upward with hope.
"Nope. But I spoke to him, and he's the one who invited me."
"I bet he's hot!" Tiffany declared, her imagination clearly departing the realm of business.
Bonita frowned in confusion. "I thought you were obsessed with my brother."
"Oh, Miss Jackson, I wish I were as strong as you."
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. A random woman materialized beside them, her hand pressed dramatically to her heart, eyes swimming with rehearsed sympathy. "Only you could bear letting your fiance care for another woman. But I understand—Adrian has simply raised the bar."
Bonita's frown deepened as she turned to Tiffany, who was already donning the serene mask of a woman wronged but wise.
"Yes, Gloria," Tiffany said, her voice dripping with benevolent condescension. "Adrian is a true gentleman. That's precisely why I don't want anyone mistaking her for his fiancée or wife. She's just… too unstable to let go of my him. And as a woman, I understand her attachment. Given Adrian's incredible smugness, who could blame her?"
Gloria's eyes glazed with admiration. "I love that you have such faith in him. And he loves you just as much."
"Thank you for your concern, Gloria. Now, if you'll excuse us." Tiffany looped her arm through Bonita's and steered them several diplomatic paces away.
"What the hell was that?" Bonita demanded the instant they were alone.
Tiffany's expression hardened just slightly—a glimpse of the strategy beneath the smile. "Adrian might arrive with Star tonight, so I went ahead and planted a little narrative; she's mentally unstable. Which she genuinely is, by the way. People were going to start gossiping that he'd left me for another woman, and that's simply not true. He saved Star, and now she clings to him like a fly to honey. I'm just… managing the optics."
Bonita's frown shifted from confusion to something heavier.
Sympathy, with a jagged edge. She'd seen her brother. She'd looked into his eyes when Star was in the room. He was deeply, irrevocably in love with that woman, and there was absolutely nothing she could bring herself to say to her friend.
A collective murmur rippled through the crowd as a massive screen flickered to life.
It displayed a live poll; Best Dressed Female and Male of the Evening. Every lady aboard was being rated and voted upon, with the winner set to receive a special token from Mr. Throne himself—a little welcome gesture he'd arranged to make everyone feel like a diamond.
The participation pool included celebrities, politicians, moguls' wives, and anyone else who'd worn their ambition that evening. At this moment, Tiffany's name sat victoriously at the top.
Collaboration with Throne Enterprise could catapult anyone into a new stratosphere of fortune, and Tiffany was already mentally drafting the partnership agreement. She was, technically, just a business student—but she dreamed on a scale that required its own zip code.
Somewhere beyond the glitter and ambition, through the inclined window of a private room, a man stood watching the blissful scene with a glass of wine in hand. His hair tumbled loose in curls to the edge of his shoulder, and the satisfied smirk resting on his face was that of someone who'd already won a game the guests didn't yet know they were playing.
"Do you think Mr. Throne will be on our side?" Kefas asked, turning from the window to the extravagance behind him.
The room was all plush velvet and muted gold, a grand sofa sprawling at its center. Maria sat there with the rigid composure of a woman balancing a grenade in her palm, while Doctor sprawled beside her as if the furniture had been installed for his exclusive comfort.
"You'd better make sure he is," Doctor said, rising and adjusting his cuffs with surgical precision. Even dressed for a gala, he radiated the kind of danger that made the champagne taste metallic. "You only have two weeks left."
Maria's voice was deceptively relaxed. "What are you planning tonight, Doctor? You can't simply ruin a gala."
Doctor grinned, pouring himself a Scotch with the unhurried pleasure of a man savoring foreplay. "Let's just say… I love this gala. So many opportunities."