The invitation came late in the afternoon, delivered not by a secretary, not by a memo—but by Adrian himself.
He leaned on the edge of Eli’s desk, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
“There’s a gallery opening tonight. You’ll accompany me.”
It wasn’t a question. Adrian never asked.
Eli didn’t look up from his tablet. “I wasn’t aware assistants were meant to attend art events.”
“You’re not attending,” Adrian replied smoothly. “You’re accompanying. There’s a difference.”
Eli raised an eyebrow. “What’s the difference?”
Adrian smirked slightly. “One is visible. The other is mine.”
Before Eli could find a response to that—not that one existed—Adrian straightened, already walking away.
“There will be a suit delivered to your apartment. Black tie. Seven sharp. Don’t be late.”
---
The car ride was silent.
Adrian sat beside him in the back of the black luxury sedan, scrolling through something on his phone. His cufflinks glinted in the low light, obsidian and silver, like him—beautiful and cold.
Eli kept his gaze forward. The suit fit perfectly, better than anything he’d ever owned. It hugged his form like it had been tailored for someone who had no choice but to wear it.
He could still feel Adrian’s eyes from earlier. They didn’t just look at him. They unwrapped him.
“I thought you hated small talk,” Eli said after too many beats of silence.
Adrian didn’t look up. “I do.”
“Then why bring me to an event full of it?”
Adrian’s reply was immediate, low. “Because you watch people. You listen. You don’t speak unless it matters.”
He turned his head, finally facing him.
“And tonight, that matters.”
---
The gallery was all polished marble and pretension. Modern sculptures of twisted metal stood under warm lighting. Expensive laughter rang out across the champagne-soaked air.
Adrian blended in effortlessly. Suave, practiced, admired. He shook hands with politicians and CEOs, trading clipped praise and calculating charm.
Eli stood by his side—silent, poised, ignored by most. But not by Adrian.
Every few minutes, Adrian’s eyes found him. Across the room, in the reflection of a sculpture, during a toast—always lingering. And when someone tried to speak to Eli, when a junior executive got a little too friendly with their smile, Adrian appeared at his side within seconds.
“Mr. Cross,” the woman said, laughing nervously as Adrian stepped between them, “we were just—”
“I’m aware,” Adrian said, not smiling.
The woman excused herself quickly. Adrian’s attention never left Eli.
“You’re not here to be flirted with,” he said, voice low, almost growling.
Eli raised a brow. “Jealous?”
“No,” Adrian replied. “Possessive.”
It should’ve scared him. It should’ve felt wrong.
But it didn’t. It felt addictive.
---
Later, Eli stepped out onto the balcony for air. The city stretched out beneath them, glittering and untouchable. He let himself exhale.
Adrian joined him minutes later. Silent again.
“You don't belong here,” Adrian said softly.
Eli turned, defensive. “Excuse me?”
“I mean this room. These people. You’re better than this.”
That caught him off guard.
“I don’t even know what I am here yet,” Eli admitted.
Adrian moved closer, hands in his pockets. “You’re observant. Brilliant. Composed. And brave enough to stand still while I try to break you.”
There it was again. That terrifying honesty. That razor-thin line between seduction and destruction.
Eli didn’t move. “And what happens when you do?”
Adrian leaned in slightly. His breath was warm against Eli’s cheek. “Then I’ll have to put you back together. Piece by piece. Mine.”
Eli’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, confused. A new message.
> Midnight. I want coffee. Strong. No sugar. Text me when you arrive. – A.C.
Eli stared at the screen. He looked up slowly.
Adrian was already gone, walking back inside the gallery. The message wasn't a request.
It was a command.
And Eli realized something—something terrifying and thrilling all at once:
Adrian Cross didn’t want company.
He wanted control.
And Eli?
He wasn’t walking away.
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