PART 6: The Gala of Glass Towers
PART 6: The Gala of Glass Towers
High-society galas reveal true intentions.
Two months later, Sterling Capital hosted its annual charity gala at the Museum of Fine Arts—a glittering, high-society event attended by governors, tech moguls, international bankers, and the elite crust of Boston society.
I wore a floor-length emerald silk gown that hugged my frame, my hair styled in soft waves, feeling entirely out of place among women draped in diamonds worth more than my childhood home.
I stood near a towering marble pillar, holding a glass of sparkling water, watching the sea of tailored tuxedos and designer dresses swirl around the grand ballroom.
That was when I saw him.
Across the room, standing near the champagne fountain, was Preston.
My breath hitched.
What was he doing here?
He must have finagled an invitation through a mutual contact from his new firm in Cambridge.
He was scanning the crowd, his eyes darting frantically until they landed directly on me.
Before I could slip away into the crowd, Preston pushed through the guests, striding across the polished marble floor with that familiar, desperate smile plastered across his face.
“Eve! Oh, thank God,” Preston breathed, stepping right up to me as if three months of radio silence and a forty-second breakup message had never happened. “I saw you in the financial journals—you’re running Sterling’s Northeast division now! That’s... incredible. I always knew you had it in you.”
I stared at him, feeling absolutely nothing.
No anger.
No heartbreak.
Just profound, hollow pity.
“Preston,” I said, my voice completely flat. “How did you get in here?”
“A colleague gave me a plus-one pass,” he stammered, his eyes darting nervously around the opulent room. “Look, Eve, I know I messed up. I was scared, I felt overwhelmed, and I ran away. But seeing you tonight... you look amazing. We belong together. Let’s get a drink, catch up—start over.”
He reached out, his hand brushing against my bare arm.
Instantly, a shadow fell over us.
A large, perfectly tailored black suit stepped between Preston and me, cutting off his advance with the quiet, immovable finality of a brick wall.
Julian Sterling.
Preston blinked, staring up at the billionaire whose face graced the cover of Forbes every six months.
“Is there a problem here?” Julian asked, his voice cold enough to freeze boiling water.
Preston’s face drained of color, his jaw dropping open.
May you like
“Mr... Mr. Sterling? I—no, no problem at all! I was just talking to my... to Eve—”
“She is not your anything,” Julian interrupted, turning his gray eyes down onto Preston with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. “And if you touch her arm again, security won't just escort you out of this museum. They’ll throw you out the window. Now. Walk away.”
