Chapter 4: Sparks and defiance

Karlo's POV

I stood at the window of my twentieth-floor office, staring down at the sprawling city below. My left hand was buried in my pocket while my right held a glass of wine, the liquid swirling as I took a slow sip.

"We need to start working on the project, Karlo," Damien said from behind me, waiting for my reaction.

"The project, you say?" I turned slowly to face him. "We both know the returns on that drug won't even cover sixty percent of our initial capital. It’s volatile. Lethal, even. A minor overdose is fatal." I walked over to my desk, setting the glass down on the polished mahogany before sinking back into my leather chair. "If the body count starts rising, it’s going to trigger a federal investigation, and the whole operation will collapse. Just like that, my investment vanishes. I don’t bankroll losing games, Damien."

"But boss, there are other variables to consider—"

"Cain," I said, shifting my gaze directly to him. "I’ve run the numbers on every single variable. Every angle points to a deficit. I’m not throwing my money into the dirt for a project that's dead on arrival." My voice remained flat, cold, and entirely devoid of room for argument.

"Leave the room," I told them. "Have the car ready. I’m leaving in ten minutes."

Without another word, they both bowed their heads and exited. I spun my chair back toward the window, letting out a sharp exhale.

A moment later, the heavy door clicked open. The rhythmic tap of high heels echoed across the hardwood floor. I spun back around to face the door. It was my sister, Sophie—the only woman left in my life I actually valued.

"Hello, brother," she greeted smoothly, tossing her designer bag onto my desk and sliding into the chair opposite me. "I thought you’d already be on your way to the gala." She didn't look up, her eyes glued to her phone screen.

"Sophie—"

"I know, I know," she cut me off, finally slipping the phone back into her bag with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. We should get moving. Honestly, Karlo, I still don't get why you keep hosting this charity gala. Mom’s been gone for years. You’re not obligated to carry this burden anymore. I’ve told you a thousand times, you can let it go."

"Sophie, this gala is the only piece of Mom's legacy I have left to protect," I replied, my tone final. "My answer isn't going to change. It's that time of the year, and the tradition stands. Let’s go."

"But Karlo—"

"Soph. Let's go." I stood up, grabbing my blazer and pulling it on.

She sighed, gathering her bag and standing up with me. "Karlo, I need some cash."

I paused, giving her a cold look. "Didn't I just transfer your allowance last week?"

"Karlo, please..."

"Tell Cain to authorize the wire," I said, brushing past her toward the door.

"Thank you!" She stepped in front of me, throwing her arms around my neck.

"Move," I commanded, my voice turning to steel. "You know I detest being touched."

She stepped back, rolling her eyes but completely unfazed. "Honestly, I wonder how any woman is ever going to survive being married to you. Do you even have a girlfriend? Oh, right, of course not. You need a woman in your life, Karlo. You’re twenty-nine, the city's most eligible bachelor, and a billionaire tycoon with a wall full of awards. You win them every single year. You have the wealth, the status, the looks..."

She kept chattering as we walked down the corridor toward the private elevator. I didn't bother responding. If anyone else dared to speak to me with that level of flippancy, they’d be thrown out of the building. But Sophie was my little sister, so I tolerated the noise.

"Take a separate car," I said abruptly as the elevator doors slid open at the lobby. Damien and Cain were already waiting by the parked vehicles.

"What? Why do I have to take a separate ca—"

"Sophie." My voice dropped an octave, a clear warning.

She flinched slightly at my tone, recognizing the hard boundary. She knew better than to push it any further.

"Fine," she muttered, turning on her heel toward the second SUV.

I let out a quiet sigh, stepping into the back of my car as Cain shut the door behind me and climbed into the front passenger seat.

~~~

When we got to the hotel it was already 5:30pm. I walked in with Cain and Damien beside me. As I entered the venue, the ushers welcomed me in. Besides the door, I saw an usher, wearing a standard corporate uniform.

Normally, I wouldn't have given her a second glance. I didn't have time for the staff. But the moment I drew near, the air between us seemed to shift.

She looked like a woman I had never set my eyes on before. It wasn’t just her physical beauty, though she was stunning; it was her aura. There was a quiet, captivating presence about her that immediately demanded my attention. She had long, rich brown hair that she had let loose, cascading down her shoulders. As I approached, she turned around to say something to the person beside her, and for a fleeting second, our eyes locked. Her eyes were a deep, striking brown, framed by a completely flawless complexion and a straight, pointed nose.

The corporate clothes she wore were standard issue for the event ushers, meant to blend in, but on her, the tailored fabric hugged a remarkably slender, elegant shape that stood out effortlessly.

For a fraction of a second, my pace slowed. I memorized the curve of her jaw, the warmth in her eyes, and the sheer innocence radiating from her—a sharp contrast to the dark world I left behind in my office.

Then, catching myself, I tore my eyes off her. I hardened my expression and kept moving, walking away toward the VIP section with Cain and Damien flanking my sides. But as the heavy doors of the main hall opened for me, the image of the brunette by the door remained burned into the back of my mind.

I let the image slip off, burying it with the eveni that was about to start in thirty minutes from now. I looked into the ballroom that was decorated, it was amusing.

I stood near the VIP ropes, looking out over the grand ballroom. The room was filling up fast with New York's elite, their diamonds flashing under the chandeliers. I despised every single one of them. They didn't care about the causes my mother spent her life championing, they only cared about being seen.

"Look at them," I muttered to Damien, my voice dripping with cold disdain. "A room full of wealthy vultures sipping champagne they didn't earn, writing checks to alleviate their own guilt. They smile for the cameras and pretend a single night of performative pity makes them decent human beings. It’s sickening. They don't have a shred of genuine empathy in their bones, just a desire for a tax write-off."

Damien just smirked without saying a word. I turned over, glancing to my right. It was the brunette usher with the long hair. Her jaw was rigid, and those deep brown eyes were flashing with a sudden, fierce heat. She didn't shrink away like the others. She looked right at me, her expression tight with an offense she couldn't seem to hide.

I arched a brow, amusement flickering briefly through the icy detachment I maintained. "And what would you know about it, girl?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. "You’re paid to stand by the door and smile. You aren't paid to analyze the morality of my guests."

She didn't flinch. If anything, her brown eyes darkened with a stubborn defiance. "Maybe not. But I’ve spent the last two days watching the logistics behind this event. I’ve seen the way the staff works, and I’ve seen the people who actually benefit from the donations you started." She took a single, small step forward, her voice gaining a surprising, steady clarity. "You call them vultures, but some of them are just people trying to fix what’s broken. And if you think empathy is just a performance, maybe that says more about how you view the world than it does about them.”

Damien stepped forward, his hand hovering near his holster, but I held up a hand, signaling him to stand down. A strange, cold thrill raced up my spine. No one—no one—ever questioned me. My sister, the only person I tolerated, didn't even dare to challenge my perspective on people.

I took a step toward her, closing the distance until she was forced to tilt her head back to look at me. The scent of her, something light, like jasmine, clashed with the heavy, masculine weight of my own cologne.

"You have a sharp tongue for someone so easily replaceable," I murmured, my gaze dropping to her lips before returning to those defiant brown eyes. I found myself leaning in, my shadow swallowing her completely. "You’re brave to speak to me like that, usher. Tell me, do you have any idea what happens to people who assume they know what's in my head?"

She didn't look away, though her fingers trembled slightly where they gripped the guest list. "I imagine they disappear, sir," she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet devoid of apology.

I stared at her for a long, silent moment, the world around us seemingly falling away into a blur of black ties and evening gowns. I was the most feared man in the city, and yet, I was standing in the middle of my own gala, utterly captivated by a woman who had the audacity to stand her ground.

"You're right," I said, my voice smooth, cold, and entirely unpredictable. "They do. Consider yourself lucky that I’m in a charitable mood tonight."

“I'm— I'm sorry, sir.” A colleague of hers apologized. What are you doing? She said dragging her away.

“Why would he say that Christal?” Her voice faded as she walked away. I stood there, my mind was entirely focused on her as she walked away. Just who is this usher?