The corporate event

By the time we get there, the event is already in full swing. Soft music is drifting in from a live quartet, and the obnoxious sound of overly polite fake laughter makes my skin crawl a little. Everyone’s dressed like they’re auditioning for the cover of Wealth & Power Monthly. And me? I eventually actually blend in and for once, I don’t feel like an imposter.

There are some familiar faces—clients I’ve only ever spoken to behind a desk, names I’ve typed a hundred times. But tonight, they’re all here in the flesh, cocktail glasses in hand, pretending none of us have ever emailed in all caps.

I stick close to a small circle of our firm’s clients, and, to my surprise, I don’t hate it. The sparkling wine helps, sure, but so does the slow realization that I’m… good at this. Socializing. Smiling. Slipping into conversation with just the right amount of charm to keep them engaged without being too fake.

At some point, Carter appears at my side. I can feel his eyes on me before he says a word.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, swirling his drink. “Better than expected.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Expected me to spill wine on someone’s suit?”

“Honestly? A little.” He smirks, but I catch something behind it—surprise, maybe even respect.

I offer him a lazy smile, take another sip, and shift back into the current of conversation, riding it until I feel the edges of my attention starting to blur. My feet are sore, if anything, they were used to wearing platform boots, not stiletto sandals, and even my cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling.

Time for a breather.

The far side of the terrace is quiet. Just shadows and stars and the soft rustling of leaves. I slip out of my heels and sink into the railing with a sigh, digging through my purse until I find my vape. A quick inhale and the whatever flavor I picked up yesterday hits the back of my throat.

I gaze at the countless stars above me and wonder when was the last time I enjoyed just watching at the night sky. For the first time in… weeks? I don’t feel the pressure. No creeping sensation under my skin. No dread curling in my stomach. It kinda feels rebellious to be outside like this—like I’m thumbing my nose at invisible monsters. Lucius said not to speak about it. And I didn’t really listen. Yet, Ryan’s fine, and me too. So maybe this… maybe this is okay too.

Just night. Deep, endless, and still.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" a deep voice says behind me.

I turn slightly, startled but not alarmed.

He’s tall. Lean but well-built, and his posture’s relaxed in a way that makes him seem completely at ease. His hair is light brown with the faintest curl and his skin has that cool pale. His eyes are sharp and narrow, but not cold. A kind of quiet intensity behind them.

"Yeah," I say, exhaling a puff of vapor. "It is."

He steps beside me, a polite distance away. “Too few people notice the sky at night anymore. Always looking down, scrolling. Or up, but only for the next photo op.”

I chuckle. “Sounds like someone’s not on Instagram.”

He smiles with a hint of something sly. “Meh... It’s overrated. I'd rather observe people in real life. More revealing.”

That makes me arch a brow. “A people-watcher?”

“Professionally,” he says, and extends a hand. “Dr. Nikolai Konovalov. I'm new in town. I specialize in couples therapy.”

"Well, I’m single. So I guess I’m off the hook," I smirk, shaking his hand. His grip is cool, firm. “Thalia.”

"Beautiful name. Uncommon these days." He pauses and smiles, just a little. “And singles tend to need the most help. You know, they're usually single for a reason.”

I let out a soft laugh, surprised. “Wow. Brutal. That sounds like something you definitely shouldn't say in a session.”

He smiles wider. “We're not in a session yet, aren't we? Besides, I've got the feeling I can afford a bit more honesty with you than with my regular patients.”

"Ok... be honest then," I challenge him. "What else can you say about me? Just by observing me."

“So we're going down that road, huh? Alright. For starters I'd say you're intelligent enough to not trust others easily,” he continues with a casual tone, as if he’s just thinking aloud. “But then... you hold yourself like someone who wants to be seen. Not by them, though,” he gestures vaguely toward the glittering crowd. “You’re too smart for that.”

I glance sideways at him. “Is that so?”

He shrugs, sipping his drink. “There’s a certain… cleverness in you. I've noticed how you handled them. You smile just right. Laugh at the right moments. Not too much, not too little. And yet…” His eyes search mine for a beat. “You’re not here for them. You're studying them. Like you're waiting to see who trips first.”

I laugh under my breath, a bit caught off guard. “You make me sound like a sociopath.”

“Not at all,” he says gently. “I'm just someone who doesn’t like pretending unless it serves a purpose. I admire that.”

Something shifts in me, just a flicker. He's not wrong.

“You know what I see when I look at most of them?” he continues with a low voice, measured, almost amused. “People drunk on their own smallness. You see, technology can change our everyday life, but not out nature. They still wear suits like some armor, throw around names and titles like spells, hoping someone will mistake it for power. But you… you don’t need to pretend. You’re not trying to impress them. One could even say you’re tolerating them.”

I smirk. “You're serious?”

“Well you asked me for my professional observation, so don't take it personally. So, if you allow me a bit more honesty... I think you don’t even belong here,” he replies. “At least not at the bottom. And you know it.”

His words slide into me like smoke but something deeper writhes underneath.

“You hide it well,” he says, “but you’re too sharp to waste your life nodding and smiling and waiting for someone to notice how capable you are. That’s the real tragedy of many people—they’re not willing to admit they’re above the crowd.”

“And you are?” I ask, lifting a brow.

He chuckles. “I’ve made my peace with it. But I rarely meet others who have.” He lets the pause sit there, sipping slowly. “Let me guess—your boss brought you here, didn’t he? Told you to be charming, make connections, the entire act.”

“Something like that,” I murmur.

“And yet here you are, doing it better than anyone in the room. And not even breaking a sweat.” He nods toward the terrace doors, where the noise of clinking glasses and fake laughs leaks through. “They don’t deserve you. But I suppose they’re useful… for now.”

Well, shit. Nailed me on the first try. Guy just read me like a Buzzfeed quiz result. For half a second, my paranoid brain whispers maybe he's a vampire, but I shove that down. Don’t be an idiot, Thalia, he’s just really good at his job. A professional mind reader, it's not like every handsome and intelligent guy is a vampire. Besides, these events have more background checks than TSA, so he must really be a renowned psychologist or something.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he presses, cocking his head. “So either I completely missed, or…” His grin is sly. “I hit bullseye.”

“No… uhm, yeah. You got me.” My laugh comes out awkward, too high-pitched. “It’s just—hell, I never thought about it myself, not really.”

Great. Smooth as sandpaper. I don’t even know what the hell I’m supposed to say next. Deny it with a cute little smirk? Toss him a sarcastic one-liner? Or just nod like some guilty teenager caught smoking behind the gym?

I’m still fumbling through the options when—of course—salvation shows up in the form of Hugh Carter himself. My boss is across the terrace, throwing me that tight, polite get your ass back here smile. The one that says stop hiding and keep sucking up to rich assholes, that’s what we pay you for. He does this tiny, fake-friendly wave, and suddenly I’m back on the clock.

Ugh. Just when it was getting interesting.

I offer Dr. Konovalov a polite half-smile — something between thanks for the insight and you’re a little terrifying — and turn to go, already slipping back into the polished version of myself I brought to this party.

He chuckles. “See? Obviously the party’s not going anywhere without your charming presence.”

Back inside, things have shifted. The music’s louder, the wine’s gone from clinking etiquette to easy laughter. Some of my co-workers are dancing, even my boss, which is rare. The stiffness has melted, and the crowd is starting to enjoy itself for real, but none of the guests seems even remotely interested to join the dancefloor.

After checking up on my clients, just enough to satisfy my boss, Nikolai and I find another drink. We lean near the edge of the dancefloor, commenting on the people around us. He’s funny, sharp, with that kind of dry wit that makes even his cynicism charming. He never laughs loudly—just gives you a look, a half-smile, as if you and he are sharing some private joke.

I’m drawn in more than I want to admit. And it's a shame I don't get to know more of him.

Because Carter appears again, slightly red from all the drinks and his attempts at dancing, and invites me to join him. I hesitate a bit, and then nod. Nikolai watches with a smirk, lifting his glass in a silent toast as I let Carter lead me onto the floor.

It’s nothing wild, but the music is just loud enough to drown out small talk and **** people to move to the rhythm. Carter’s clearly having fun, and I do what I do best. I take the lead when needed, twirling a bit, teasing out some fun moves. Soon I see others watching, feeling the pull. One by one, more people join the dancefloor.

Carter’s gaze lingers on me, warm and a little too focused, the kind of look that walks the line between admiration and something slightly more personal. I notice it, of course — how could I not? — but I keep the atmosphere light, twirling just enough to make it playful, letting a confident smile tug at my lips. He laughs, clearly enjoying himself, and falls into step with me, matching my rhythm as if we’ve danced together a hundred times before. For a little while, with the music rising and laughter bubbling around us, it almost feels like a real party — spontaneous, joyful, unburdened.

But then I feel it — not a sound or a word, just the weight of a glance. My eyes drift across the dancefloor and find Nikolai, still standing off to the side, still watching me, that faint curve of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth, with that quiet confidence — like he already knows exactly where this night is heading, and he’s perfectly content to let me stumble toward it on my own.

An hour or so later, with my feet screaming in my heels I’m more than ready to leave. Many of the more interesting guests have already left, that handsome shrink too, unfortunately. Yet Carter is still in the thick of it, now more flushed, and another drink in his hand clearly says it's mostly not from dancing. I go up to him.

“Carter... I think it’s time. You were going to drive me home, remember?”

He gives me a blank look for a moment. I'm already preparing my next words to convince him but then his gaze drops just a little too slow along my body.

“Right,” he says, and his smile tightens. “Let’s get you home then.”

Carter’s car beeps as it unlocks, and I slip into the passenger seat. I’m tipsy, not drunk, but the moment I sit down I feel that party-high draining out of me like someone popped a cork. Then Carter starts the engine.

He doesn’t swerve or stall or anything, but… his movements are a little slow. Measured, like he’s focusing too hard.

“You good to drive?” I ask, not quite looking at him.

He laughs. “I’ve been to worse parties and driven just fine.”

Not exactly reassuring.

Still, we’re already moving, and the way he navigates the exit and merges into the night traffic calms me—somewhat. The streets are quiet. It’s late, and most of the city has turned in. That post-party weariness creeps in: my heels are killing me and the tight dress feels like it’s slowly turning into a boa constrictor.

Carter glances over. “You did well tonight,” he says. “Honestly, I didn’t expect you to… I mean, you’re good at your job, but tonight? You lit the place up.”

I mumble a thanks, trying not to let his tone crawl under my skin. It’s still professional… but just barely.

“I mean it,” he adds. “The clients loved you. You have that thing… presence. Looks help, sure, but it’s more than that. Confidence. You walk into a room and it notices you.”

I **** a polite smile. “It was just a party.”

“Yeah, and you owned it.”

I keep my eyes on the road.

“You know…” he says after a pause, and there’s that shift in tone again. “A woman like you could go far. Especially if she knows how to… align herself.”

I blink. “Align?”

He laughs a little, then his hand casually drifts from the gearstick and lands on my leg—light, almost like a suggestion. Just above the knee.

“I’m talking about partnerships,” he says smoothly. “You and me... working closer. Strategically. You’re smart enough to know what I mean.”

And there it is. The offer.

Subtle as a brick in the face. Sleazy motherfucker.

I stare out the windshield, my skin prickling where his hand touches me. And in that instant my mind flashes back to Nikolai and his calm, knowing gaze. The way he said I was playing the game better than most of them. That I didn’t belong in that room.

And he was right, I didn’t. And I don’t belong here either.

So the question is... do I really want to play this game?