Chapter 2 - The Spilled Champagne and The King of New York
“You look like you’re doing well, Ava,” Damian sneered, his eyes raking over her plain, utilitarian black dress. “Though I suppose arranging flowers is a step up from steaming milk.”
Ava’s hands trembled slightly, but she locked her knees to keep from stepping back. “I’m an event coordinator, Damian. And I’m working. Please leave me alone.”
“Or what?” Victoria chimed in, her voice dripping with bored malice. She signaled a passing waiter, taking two flutes of champagne from his silver tray. She handed one to Damian. “She’s so... defensive. I suppose poverty does that to a person’s temperament.”
“She’s just bitter,” Damian said loudly. A few heads from nearby tables turned their way. He wanted an audience, and in a room full of bored billionaires, a spectacle was always welcome. “She thought she was entitled to my success. Like buying a few groceries meant she owned my future.”
“You didn’t just let me buy groceries,” Ava said, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “I paid your tuition. I paid your rent. I believed in you when you had nothing.”
Damian’s eyes darkened. The truth hit a nerve, cracking his polished veneer. He took a step closer, towering over her. “You were a stepping stone, Ava. A desperate girl who thought she could buy a man out of her league. Look at you. You’re pathetic.”
He gestured wildly with his hand, feigning clumsiness. But Ava saw his eyes. She saw the deliberate flick of his wrist.
The crystal flute tilted.
An entire glass of sticky, expensive vintage champagne splashed directly onto the bodice of Ava’s dress, soaking through the cheap fabric instantly, dripping down her chest and staining her only pair of work shoes.
A collective gasp echoed from the bystanders, followed immediately by scattered laughter. Victoria covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with amusement. Damian didn’t even try to hide his smirk.
“Oh, my apologies,” Damian said, loud enough for the growing crowd to hear. “I didn’t realize you were standing so close. Though, honestly, it might be an improvement on the dress.”
Forty people were watching. Some were whispering behind manicured hands; others were openly laughing at the humiliated staff member.
Tears burned the back of Ava’s throat, but she refused to let them fall. She looked down at her ruined dress, the sticky chill seeping into her skin, feeling the heavy, crushing weight of her own insignificance in this room.
She turned to flee to the kitchens.
But before she could take a single step, the temperature in the ballroom seemed to drop ten degrees.
The laughter died instantly. The murmurs evaporated into a deafening, terrifying silence. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, people stumbling backward in their haste to get out of the way.
Footsteps against the marble floor rang out with the rhythmic, heavy cadence of an executioner.
Ava looked up.
He was easily six-foot-three, wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo tailored so perfectly it looked like armor. His face was a masterpiece of cold, sharp angles—a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes the color of a winter storm. He moved with the lethal, unhurried grace of an apex predator.
Every person in New York knew that face.
Julian Vance.
CEO of Vance Global. The ruthless billionaire who swallowed corporations whole, destroyed generational wealth before breakfast, and commanded the city from a glass penthouse in the clouds. He was the most feared, untouchable man in Manhattan.
Damian swallowed hard, his arrogant smirk melting into absolute terror. He hurriedly set his empty glass down, standing up straighter. “Mr. Vance. Sir, it’s an honor to—”
Julian didn’t even look at him. He didn’t acknowledge Damian’s existence.
Instead, Julian Vance walked straight up to Ava.
He stopped inches from her. His stormy gray eyes swept over her soaked dress, then lifted to meet her wide, stunned gaze. The raw fury swirling in his eyes wasn’t directed at her—it was a violent, protective storm meant for the room.
Without a word, Julian shrugged off his bespoke suit jacket. He stepped into Ava’s personal space, wrapped the heavy, warm, silk-lined fabric over her shivering shoulders, and pulled the lapels together to cover the stain. He smelled like expensive cedar, vetiver, and dangerous power.
Then, Julian turned his head slowly. His gaze locked onto Damian.
“You seem to find destroying property amusing,” Julian’s voice was a low, smooth baritone that commanded absolute obedience.
Damian’s face drained of color. “I... it was an accident, Mr. Vance. The girl just got in the way—”
“The girl,” Julian interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, turning deadly cold, “is my fiancée. And if you ever speak to her, look at her, or breathe in her direction again, I will personally ensure your resume becomes an obituary in this city. Do you understand me?”
The ballroom collectively stopped breathing.
Victoria Langford dropped her champagne glass. It shattered on the marble.
Ava stared at Julian, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Fiancée?
Damian trembled, visibly shaking under the weight of Julian’s stare. “I... I didn’t know. I swear to God, Mr. Vance, I had no idea.”
“Leave,” Julian commanded softly.
Damian didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Victoria’s arm, nearly dragging the heiress as they fled the ballroom in absolute disgrace.
May you like
Julian turned his back on the crowd, effectively dismissing the wealthiest people in New York, and looked down at Ava. His expression softened by a microscopic fraction.
“Come with me, darling,” he murmured, placing a warm, heavy hand on the small of her back. “We’re leaving.”
