Carlisle's footsteps were measured and deliberate.
The crowd naturally parted for him, sensing the heavy, gravitational pull of his authority. He didn't rush. He walked toward Cierra like a predator who already knew all the exits were sealed.
Cierra's breaths came in short, shallow gasps. She shifted her weight, trying to hide the left side of her face behind Julian's broad shoulder.
It didn't work.
Carlisle stopped exactly two feet in front of them. His towering height forced Cierra to tilt her head up. The sheer physical presence of him was suffocating.
Julian, completely oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature, smiled brightly and thrust his hand forward.
"Julian Vance," he said. "An absolute honor, Mr. McLean. And this is my dear friend, Cierra Holcomb."
Carlisle's dark eyes didn't even flick toward Julian. They stayed pinned to Cierra's pale face.
He slowly extended his right hand.
"A pleasure to meet you," Carlisle said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that sent a violent shiver down Cierra's spine.
Cierra's arm felt like lead. She forced her hand up, her trembling fingers sliding into his palm.
Carlisle's grip clamped down instantly.
The heat of his skin and the rough texture of the calluses at the base of his fingers hit Cierra like a physical blow.
Her mind violently flashed back to a freezing rainstorm four years ago.
She was standing on the cracked pavement outside his crumbling apartment building. She was throwing the cheap silver necklace he had bought her straight into his chest.
Look at your shoes, Carlisle, her own vicious voice echoed in her head. You're a charity case. You will never, ever belong in my world. Stop dragging me down with you.
Carlisle's fingers tightened around hers, crushing her knuckles.
The sharp pain snapped Cierra back to the present. She gasped softly, her eyes widening in alarm.
She yanked her hand back. Her fingertips were throbbing, shaking uncontrollably against the silk of her dress.
Carlisle casually dropped his hand. He finally turned his attention to Julian.
"I'm just taking care of some business tonight, Julian," Carlisle said, his tone conversational but laced with venom. "Liquidating some old investments that turned out to be worthless."
Julian laughed, nodding in agreement. "The market is ruthless right now. Smart move."
Cierra's blood ran cold. She understood the double meaning perfectly. It was a death sentence.
A woman in a sharp, tailored pantsuit stepped up beside Carlisle.
"Mr. McLean," K.C. said quietly. "The board members are waiting for you in the VIP section."
Carlisle gave a brief nod. He looked back at Cierra one last time. His eyes were dead, devoid of any of the warmth he used to look at her with. He looked at her like she was garbage.
He turned and walked away.
Cierra's knees nearly buckled. She grabbed Julian's forearm to steady herself.
"I need to go to the restroom," she choked out. "My makeup."
Before Julian could answer, Cierra picked up the heavy skirt of her dress and practically ran.
She shoved past the bewildered guests, her heels clicking frantically against the marble floor of the corridor. She hit the heavy wooden door of the women's restroom with her shoulder and stumbled inside.
She bypassed the sinks and locked herself in the furthest stall.
Cierra leaned back against the cold metal door, pressing her hands over her face. She sucked in greedy mouthfuls of air, trying to stop the room from spinning.
With trembling hands, she dug her phone out of her clutch. She opened her banking app.
The screen loaded. The balance stared back at her: $412.00.
A wave of nausea hit her. If Carlisle exposed her past, if he told the PR world what a shallow, vicious person she was, her influencer career would be instantly vaporized. She would be living on the streets.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had to survive tonight.
Cierra unlocked the stall and walked to the marble sinks.
She turned on the gold faucet and splashed freezing water onto her neck and collarbone. She grabbed her concealer, aggressively tapping it under her eyes to hide the redness. She swiped a thick layer of crimson lipstick over her mouth.
Armor. She needed armor.
Cierra took a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back, and pushed open the restroom door.
She took exactly two steps into the hallway before she nearly collided with a solid figure.
It was the woman in the pantsuit. K.C.
K.C. didn't blink. She held out a thick, black card with gold foil lettering.
"Cierra Holcomb," K.C. said. Her voice was entirely devoid of emotion. "The CEO is waiting for you in the private lounge on the second floor."
Cierra's heart hammered against her ribs. She lifted her chin, trying to summon her fake socialite arrogance.
"I'm afraid I'm busy. My friend is waiting for me in the ballroom."
K.C. didn't lower her hand.
"Mr. McLean instructed me to tell you," K.C. said flatly, "that if you decline, he has no problem walking down to the ballroom and dragging you up there himself."
A cold sweat broke out across Cierra's lower back.
She had no choice. She clutched her purse to her chest and followed K.C. down the dimly lit, silent corridor.
