The night of the fundraiser arrived faster than I expected — or maybe I just hadn't let myself think about it too much. The days leading up to it had been a blur of schedules, media briefings, last-minute guest confirmations, and speech edits. I'd buried myself in work, thinking if I stayed busy enough, I wouldn't have time to overthink. But standing there, heels clicking against marble as I walked into the ballroom, I felt it all hit me at once. The pressure. The eyes. The importance of tonight.Everything we'd worked toward — everything I'd worked toward — was about to unfold in a single evening that had to go perfectly.
There was no room for mistakes. And no room for whatever it was I kept feeling around Aidan Blackthorne.
The ballroom at the city's Grand Marlowe Hotel shimmered with gold lights, crystal chandeliers, and soft music. Important business leaders, reporters, and city officials filled the room, sipping wine and exchanging small talk. Everyone was dressed in their best. Everyone was watching.
I stood near the entrance, clipboard in hand, checking my notes. This night was important. It was the first major public step in Aidan's new image. If he pulled it off, people would start to believe in his transformation.
If he messed up, everything would fall apart.
Then I saw him.
Aidan Blackthorne stood near the center of the room, surrounded by a small circle of investors. Even from a distance, he stood out — not just because of who he was, but because of how he carried himself. Effortless. Relaxed. Completely at home in a room full of people who judged with their smiles and measured worth in headlines.
His black suit fit him like it had been made for no one else. Crisp, modern lines, a subtle sheen to the fabric that caught the ballroom lights just enough. No tie — of course not — but somehow he still looked polished. The open collar of his shirt revealed just a hint of carelessness, the kind that only worked when you were used to attention and expected it.
He laughed at something one of them said, that signature smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. And then — like he'd felt me watching — he turned slightly and saw me.
His eyes locked onto mine. Calm, clear, unreadable. But something in them shifted for a split second — like a flicker of recognition, or maybe just amusement.
I straightened instinctively, every part of me going still, because I know deep down inside me that Aidan Blackthorne wasn't just a client anymore.
He was the only person who made me feel unsure, distracted, or emotionally unsettled — like I couldn't fully stay in control around him.
Then, without a word, he excused himself from the group and started walking toward me.
There was a casual confidence in his stride — like he had all the time in the world, like he already knew I'd be standing there. His hands slipped into his pockets, his gaze fixed on me as if nothing else in the room mattered. The crowd seemed to part around him naturally, people glancing his way, drawn in the same way everyone always was.
But it wasn't just how he moved. It was the way he looked at me — steady and unreadable.
I straightened my shoulders, already bracing myself.
"You clean up nice," he said with a grin.
I looked him over, trying not to let my face give anything away. "You're not too bad yourself."
"Thanks," he said, then nodded to the crowd. "So… this is it. Time to be a serious, trustworthy man."
"You've been doing well," I honestly said. "Just keep it that way tonight."
"Do I get a reward if I behave?" he asked, the corner of his mouth pulling into a crooked grin — the kind that had probably gotten him out of trouble more times than it should have. His eyes sparkled with mischief, like he was daring me to rise to the bait, like this whole night — the suits, the speeches, the polished persona — was still a game to him.
I gave him a sharp look, but he just smiled wider. "Kidding."
A waiter passed by with champagne. Aidan grabbed two glasses and handed one to me.
"I don't drink on the job," I said, waving it away.
"You ever stop working?"
"Not if I can help it."
He took a sip, then said, "Maybe that's your problem."
I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know I had one."
He smiled, but didn't argue.
A few minutes later, someone tapped the microphone on the stage. It was the host of the evening — a well-known journalist and friend of Aidan's father. He welcomed the guests and gave a brief speech about the charity they were supporting: a mentorship program for young entrepreneurs.
Then came the moment I had been waiting for.
"Our next speaker," the host said, "is someone who has built businesses, taken risks, and now wants to give back to the next generation. Please welcome Aidan Blackthorne."
The crowd clapped as Aidan stepped onto the stage.
I held my breath.
He began slowly, thanking everyone, then talking about his own journey — the failures, the mistakes, the lessons. He spoke from the heart. No jokes. No show.
He even mentioned the people who had helped him when he was just starting out. People who had believed in him before he had money or success.
"I've made choices I'm not proud of," he said, looking directly at the crowd. "But I've also learned. I want to use what I've built to help others. Because at the end of the day, legacy isn't about headlines. It's about impact."
Silence.
Then applause.
Loud. Real.
I felt my chest tighten. He'd done it. He'd spoken like a man who meant every word. And people believed him.
When he stepped off the stage, I met him halfway.
"You were amazing," I said — and to my own annoyance, a smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
I hadn't planned to say it. I'd meant to keep it strictly professional, offer a quick "well done" and move on. But the words slipped out, softer than I expected, more honest than I intended. Because the truth was, he *had* been amazing — sincere, composed, vulnerable in a way I hadn't seen from him before.
And despite everything — despite my rules, despite my need for distance — I couldn't help the warmth creeping into my voice… or the slight upward curve of my mouth that betrayed me.
Just for a second, I wasn't Sophie Navarro, PR strategist. I wasn't the fixer with the sharp edges and spotless heels. I wasn't the woman who didn't get emotionally involved. Just for a second, I was someone standing too close to a man who made her heart skip — someone who, for the first time in a long time, forgot to be careful.
"You helped me get here," he said softly.
We stood there for a moment, surrounded by lights and voices — but only seeing each other.
Then a camera flashed nearby — sharp and sudden, a burst of white that snapped me back to reality.
I instinctively took a step back, heart lurching as the moment between us shattered. But in my rush to pull away, my heel caught the edge of the rug beneath us. My balance tipped — just slightly — but enough to make me stumble.
Before I could catch myself, Aidan's hand shot out. One arm wrapped around my waist, steadying me with a grip that was firm but careful, his fingers pressing into the small of my back.
My breath hitched.
For one suspended second, I was close enough to feel the warmth of him through my dress, to catch the faint scent of cologne and something else — something unmistakably him. His hand lingered just a moment too long, like he didn't want to let go. Or maybe I didn't want him to.
But then I straightened, pulling myself out of his hold and putting distance between us again.
I smoothed my blazer, lifted my chin, and forced my voice to stay cool.
"Careful," I said quietly. "People are watching."
Aidan's smile faded a little. "Right. Always watching."
The rest of the night went smoothly. Reporters asked questions, guests made donations, and the event was a success.
But I couldn't shake the feeling growing inside me — a mix of pride, fear, and something else I didn't want to name. Something softer. Something dangerous.
Later, as the guests began to leave and the staff cleaned up, I found myself alone with Aidan in a quiet corner of the ballroom.
The air was different now — quieter, still charged but more intimate. The music had faded into the background, and the lights had dimmed just enough to cast long shadows along the marble floor.
"Thank you for tonight," he said. "You helped me find something real in all of this."
I looked at him. "You did the hard part. You opened up."
He stepped closer. "I meant what I said up there. About learning. About changing."
I just nodded. And there was a long pause.
"I want to know more about you, Sophie," he said. "Not just the polished version."
I looked at the floor. "There's not much to know."
"I don't believe that," he said gently. "You've built a wall around yourself. But why?"
I felt the weight of his words. No one had ever asked me that — not in a way that sounded like they actually cared.
"Because walls keep things safe," I said after a moment. "They keep people from getting too close… and leaving."
Aidan was silent, then nodded slowly. His gaze didn't waver, and neither did the kindness in it. It made my chest ache.
"But what if someone doesn't want to leave?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I looked up then. And for one terrifying second, I believed him.
But before either of us could speak again, my phone buzzed.
A message from Jordan:
Photos and press feedback are coming in — all good. Call me when you're free.
I slipped the phone back into my clutch and took a step away from him.
"I have to go," I said, carefully neutral. No emotion. No crack in my voice.
Aidan didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, looking at me like he was trying to find the right words — or maybe holding back the ones he really wanted to say.
Then he gave a small nod. "Of course."
But it was the way he said it — quiet, resigned — that made something inside me twist. His usual smirk was gone. His shoulders, usually straight with confidence, dipped ever so slightly. And his eyes… they didn't sparkle the way they usually did. They looked tired. Guarded. Hurt.
I turned before I could second-guess myself. Each step toward the ballroom exit felt like walking uphill through fog — slow, heavy, uncertain.
I didn't let myself look back. Because I knew if I did — if I caught one more glimpse of the disappointment in his face or the sadness he was trying to hide — I'd hesitate.
And hesitation was dangerous.
Because if I stopped walking now… I might really fall for him.
And falling wasn't part of the plan.