Chapter 1 - The Ten-Second BlueprintHarper didn’t blink.
Three hundred pairs of eyes were pinned on the space between them, the silence in the grand ballroom thick enough to suffocate a roomful of Chicago’s elite. Connor’s face had drained of whatever smug color it possessed moments ago, his mouth half-open like a fish out of water. Paige’s manicured fingers tightened so hard against Connor’s sleeve that her acrylic nails bit into the navy fabric.
Roman Falco’s gaze remained locked on Harper. There was no mockery in his dark eyes, no performative charm like the kind Connor wore like cheap cologne. There was only a cold, calculating stillness—the look of a predator who had just spotted an interesting game piece on a board he already owned.
Trust me for ten seconds.
Harper’s mind raced. Roman Falco was dangerous. Touching him, aligning with him publicly, meant stepping out of the safe, respectable corporate lane she had spent a decade building and diving headfirst into an abyss of underworld rumors, federal whispers, and ruthless power plays.
If she said no, Connor and Paige would win. They would brand her as fragile, pathetic, and discarded.
If she said yes... she rewrote the entire social hierarchy of Chicago before midnight.
Harper let out a slow, measured breath. Her corporate litigator instincts—honed by years of gambling on high-stakes courtrooms—flared to life.
“Ten seconds,” Harper whispered back, her voice steady enough to slice glass. “Don’t waste them.”
A corner of Roman’s mouth curved upward, just a fraction.
Before Connor could sputter another syllable, Roman’s hand slid from the small of Harper’s back up to the nape of her neck. His fingers tangled gently in the dark strands of her hair, pulling her forward.
There was no hesitation.
Roman kissed her.
It wasn't the polite, closed-mouth peck of high-society couples performing for cameras. It was deliberate, hot, and devastatingly thorough. The shock of it hit Harper like an electric current; her fingers instinctively curled into the lapels of his black suit jacket to steady herself.
Around them, the ballroom collectively inhaled.
A glass slipped from someone’s fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sharp crack that echoed like a gunshot. Paige gasped, recoiling as if she had been physically struck. Connor’s face mottled into a furious, humiliated purple.
Harper didn’t care. For the first time in six weeks, the cold knot of betrayal in her chest uncoiled, replaced by a roaring, intoxicating rush of absolute power.
May you like
Roman pulled back slowly, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair away from Harper’s flushed cheek. His dark eyes glittered with dark amusement.
“Time’s up,” Roman murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “How was that for an opening argument?”
