Chapter 227
Author’s pov
The reception was at one of those upscale clubs in central London–sleek, exclusive, drowning in chandeliers and velvet, with waiters who moved like they were on rails.
The room buzzed: glasses clinked, laughter rose and fell, and the soft murmur of jazz.
Cecilia barely noticed.
Normally, she’d own a night like this–chatting up coworkers, trading cards, working the room like it was her stage.
She was good at it, too. The polished charm, the strategic smiles, the way she remembered names and made people feel like they mattered–it was second nature.
Most nights, that social armor fit like a second skin. But tonight, it felt heavy. Off.
Tonight, she felt like a tourist who didn’t speak the language.
She grabbed a glass of wine early, made the rounds, said the right things–then slipped into a corner to watch instead of perform.
Still, she didn’t go unnoticed.
Alone with her wine in a sleek black dress, her face a mask of calm detachment, she looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine.
Eyes followed her without her trying. A few men hovered nearby, waiting for an opening that never came.Someone offered her champagne; she declined without looking up.
And that flicker of distraction in her eyes? It only made her more interesting.
Men from the firm kept drifting her way, looking for excuses to strike up conversation.
At first, she entertained them with polite small talk.
But as the evening wore on, her patience wore thin, stretched to its breaking point.
Every laugh, every half-hearted compliment grated more than the last.
Eventually, a particularly chatty colleague launched into a long-winded story, then burst into forced laughter at his own joke.
Something in her cracked.
“I’m so sorry,”she said, her smile flawless and practiced.”I need to freshen up p>
The marble bathroom felt like sanctuary.
She gripped the counter, the stone cold beneath her palms, and took a breath. Then another.
Like she could inhale calm and exhale regret. Like she could breathe past the pressure building behind her ribs.
It was your call.
Sebastian’s words rattled in her skull, sharp and steady, like a ticking clock she couldn’t shut off.
When she emerged, she made an executive decision: survival mode.
She snagged a plate of hors d’oeuvres, flashed a charming smile at a passing server, and lifted an unopened bottle of cabernet straight off his tray. No one stopped her.
Out on the balcony, the air was crisp and bracing.
Sawyer was deep in conversation with a striking blonde, his usual composure traded in for animated gestures and a rare grin.
She wasn’t about to kill his vibe.
So Cecilia claimed a small table in the corner and settled in, alternating bites of prosciutto with slow sips of wine. If she had to endure tonight, she’d do it on her own terms.
What she didn’t know was that Tang, lurking in the shadows like a gossip columnist on assignment, had been snapping photos of her all evening–and forwarding them directly to Sebastian.
So it was that in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, Sebastian’s phone buzzed with a string of increasingly entertaining updates:
Cecilia, giving polite smiles to hovering male coworkers.
Cecilia, vanishing into the restroom.
Cecilia, now on the balcony, wine bottle in one hand, prosciutto in the other, looking like she was hosting her own private afterparty.
He paused at the last photo. Wasn’t it chilly outside?
Across from him, Lord Northern–a silver-haired aristocrat with a voice like old leather and scotch–raised his glass.
“Alpha Sebastian, you know more than I expected p>
Sebastian looked up, slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket. “I make a habit of researching anything that piques my interest p>
“And yet,” Lord Northern said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “why come all the way here? With your status, I imagine the Moonveil Ascendancy would’ve welcomed you in New York or Los Angeles p>
Sebastian offered a measured smile. “London is the center of it all. Besides,” he added, “I find… mystique works better in person p>
Lord Northern chuckled, evidently satisfied. “We’re holding a private orientation this weekend. Someone will be in touch with the details p>
“Perfect.” Sebastian rose, buttoning his jacket. The meeting was over.
Back at the reception, Cecilia had made the rookie mistake of drinking wine on an empty stomach.
Now she was slouched over a tiny cocktail table, cheek pressed against the cool metal surface, the world spinning in slow, lazy circles.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there when a sudden buzz rose from inside–excited voices, chairs scraping, a shift in the air like something important had just walked in.
With effort, she turned her head toward the noise.
Through the haze of wine and warm lighting, she spotted a tall figure cutting through the crowd. Even blurred, she knew him.
The man with the arms.
The shirtless arms.
Her wine-happy brain giggled like a child.
Very sexy arms. Lean. Defined. Functional.
“Hic p>
A hiccup popped out as Sebastian’s voice reached her, low and close.
“Time to go home p>
She barely registered the weight of his jacket settling over her shoulders before strong arms lifted her clean off the chair.
Cecilia blinked blearily up at him, then pointed vaguely toward the table. “Pro…prosciutto p>
Sebastian glanced at the plate. Two uneven slices remained, both clearly gnawed on.
“You want to take it with you p>
“Nooo,” she slurred, shaking her head. “Don’t pack it p>
Then, with a sudden burst of coordination that surprised them both, she reached up and pressed her fingers gently to his mouth.
“It’s for you,” she whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Wolves love meat, don’they p>