Chapter 4: The Gala of Wolves

Elena’s palms were sweating inside her elbow-length gloves. The Venetian chandeliers of the Ashworth Grand Ballroom cast a kaleidoscope of light over a hundred of Manhattan’s most ruthless elites. She stood near a pillar of Carrara marble, clutching a champagne flute she hadn’t touched, feeling like a fraud in a designer gown that cost more than her mother’s final hospital bill.

*Julian’s painted eyes. The cold files in Alexander’s study. The locked door with the brass plaque.*

She’d barely slept. Every shadow in the penthouse had felt like a stalker’s silhouette.

“You’re hovering like a waitress who lost her tray.”

Alexander’s voice sliced through her spiraling thoughts. He appeared beside her, all six-foot-four of him poured into a midnight-black tuxedo, the cut of it sharp enough to draw blood. His tie was undone just enough to be dangerous. His smile was nowhere to be found.

“I don’t belong here,” Elena whispered, her gaze darting to a trio of women across the floor—diamond-drenched vultures who had already dissected her with a single, dismissive glance.

“You’re Mrs. Blackwood. You belong wherever I am.” He took her hand, and the proprietary heat of his palm seared through her gloves. “Now, smile like you just won a lottery you never bought a ticket for.”

She forced a curve to her lips. “Your idea of a pep talk needs work.”

“My idea of a pep talk is keeping you alive.” His low murmur was for her ears only, and it made her stomach somersault. “Stick close. Don’t drink anything unless I pour it. And if a woman with silver hair and a viper’s smile approaches, tell her you’re allergic to pity.”

“Wait, why—”

The music shifted. A sweeping waltz. The guests turned, and Alexander pulled her onto the dance floor before she could protest. His hand settled on the small of her back, and the contact was a brand, searing through the silk of her gown.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, guiding her into the first steps with infuriating ease.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m the man who killed your dreams.” His jaw was tight. “We discussed this. Public perception is a weapon. We don’t give our enemies ammunition.”

“Your enemies,” she corrected, stumbling slightly. He caught her, his grip flexing on her waist, drawing her flush against his chest. The warmth of him was a shock to her system, and for a dizzying second, she forgot about the dead man in the portrait.

“No, Elena. *Our* enemies now.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle on her spine. “You signed the contract. You’re marked. The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes.”

“Easier for you,” she breathed. “You get a puppet. I get a target.”

The song swelled. Alexander spun her, and when she came back to him, his eyes had darkened to the color of a storm over the Atlantic. “You get me,” he said, his voice gravel. “And I’m worth every damn enemy I’ve made.”

Before she could retort, a sharp, nasal voice cut through the music.

“Alexander! Darling, I heard the rumors, but I simply had to see the bride with my own eyes.”

The silver-haired viper. She materialized like smoke, her gown a blood-red sheath that clung to her skeletal frame. Behind her, a sycophant with a notepad and a hungry grin.

Alexander didn’t release Elena. Instead, he pulled her closer, tucking her under his arm like a shield he intended to keep.

“Celeste,” he said, his tone a blade wrapped in velvet. “You’re looking… preserved.”

Celeste’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “And you’re looking like you’ve finally found a pet that won’t bite.” Her gaze slithered to Elena. “Tell me, dear, is it true you were his *waitress*? How… democratically romantic. Do you have a name tag somewhere, or is that only for the breakfast rush?”

Laughter rippled from the vultures nearby. Elena’s face burned. She opened her mouth, but Alexander beat her to it.

“She has my last name.” His voice dropped to a frost. “Which is more than I can say for your fourth husband, Celeste. I heard he’s been reduced to walking your poodles.”

Celeste’s face went the color of her gown. The sycophant’s pencil froze.

“Now,” Alexander continued, his smile razor-thin, “if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to dance with my wife without the stench of insecurity following us.”

He turned his back on her. The cut was surgical. Celeste’s eyes, wide and spitting venom, locked onto Elena’s for a single, terrible moment.

*I know something you don’t.*

The unspoken message was as clear as glass.

Alexander guided her back into the dance, his body a fortress between her and the room. But Elena’s heart was pounding for a different reason now. She’d seen that look before—on the face of her mother’s landlord, the day he’d thrown them out. It was the look of someone who had leverage.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Elena whispered, her voice unsteady.

“Yes, I did.” His gaze was fixed over her shoulder, scanning the crowd. “No one attacks what’s mine. Not even on national television.”

*Mine.* The word echoed in her chest, warm and terrifying. She wanted to ask if that was still just for the cameras. She wanted to believe it wasn’t.

But then his phone buzzed in his inner pocket. He pulled it out with his free hand, his eyes scanning the screen. His entire posture went rigid.

“What is it?” Elena asked.

He looked at her, and for the first time since she’d met him, she saw something flicker in his dark eyes. Not ice. Not cold calculation.

*Fear.*

“They found her,” he said, his voice barely audible over the waltz. “Rachel. Julian’s first wife. She’s been dead for three years, Elena.” His grip tightened on her waist. “And someone just used her name to transfer half of the Blackwood trust offshore.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

Alexander pulled her from the dance floor, not waiting for the song to end. His face was stone, but his hand was trembling.

“It means,” he said, his voice low and lethal, “that whoever killed Julian isn’t just coming for you next, Elena. They’re already here. And they’ve been watching us all night.”

A cold draft swept through the ballroom. Elena turned, and through the glittering crowd, she caught a glimpse of a man in the shadows near the terrace doors. He was wearing the same black suit as the waitstaff. But his eyes were fixed on her, not the tray in his hands.

And he was smiling.

The gala had just become a hunting ground. And Elena wasn’t sure if Alexander was the hunter, the prey, or the bait she was meant to be.