---
Amelia had attended hundreds of events. Galas, summits, luxury launches, private showcases dripping in diamonds and old money. She'd grown bored of them before she turned twenty-five. But this… this was different.
The Infinity Circle invitation still sat on her desk the next morning, untouched but heavy with meaning.
No RSVP. No plus-one. No address.
Just a time.
Midnight. Tonight.
And below that, in tiny embossed font:
"Power doesn't knock. It enters."
That alone was enough to make her pause.
By 5 PM, her entire schedule had been cleared. She didn't remember giving the order—but someone had. No one questioned it.
"Do you want me to do background on Infinity?" Sienna asked as Amelia entered the styling suite in her penthouse. The stylist team stood at full attention.
"No," Amelia said, already peeling off her shirt. "If they wanted me to know more, they'd have told me."
A long pause.
"You're actually nervous," Sienna said, watching her with narrowed eyes.
Amelia raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "I don't do nervous."
"Sure. And I don't do wine before noon."
They both knew that was a lie.
---
By 11:30 PM, Amelia descended the marble staircase in a black velvet dress sculpted to her body like sin. A high slit kissed her hipbone. The neckline plunged dangerously low, revealing skin most boardrooms would never dream of seeing.
But this wasn't business.
This was a battlefield of a different kind.
Her driver said nothing as he handed her a small black envelope. "Coordinates," he muttered. "It updates live. No address."
She slid inside the sleek car and watched the city blur around her as the car moved downtown—then under. Beneath Manhattan's usual glow, deep into private tunnels only the elite would dare trespass.
Finally, the car stopped. A wrought iron door loomed ahead, guarded by two men in suits who looked like they moonlighted as assassins.
No one asked her name.
No one asked for ID.
They simply opened the door.
She walked in like smoke.
---
The Infinity Circle wasn't a party.
It was a performance.
A cathedral-like hall greeted her, gilded in obsidian and gold. Music pulsed, low and primal. Waiters in suits passed around drinks no one recognized. The lighting was designed to cast shadows more than light.
And the people… they weren't the ones she saw at fundraisers and Forbes covers.
They were bigger than that. Older. Hungrier.
Her heels clicked against marble. Heads turned.
Eyes followed.
But no one approached her. Not yet.
Amelia liked that. Let them look. Let them wonder.
She made her way to the bar, where even the bartender didn't speak. She sipped something smooth and smoky.
Then she felt it.
A presence.
Not a man. A pull.
Her spine straightened, lips parting slightly.
Someone was watching her. Not from afar.
From close.
Too close.
"Amelia Sinclair," a low voice murmured behind her. "You walk like you own the floor."
"I do," she replied, without turning.
A chuckle. Deep. Unimpressed.
"And yet you're still looking for something."
Now she turned.
And met eyes the color of gunmetal and ash.
Him.
He wasn't in a tux. He didn't even try to blend in. Black shirt, sleeves rolled, a single chain glinting at his throat. Tattoos crept up one side of his neck. Unapologetically raw.
"I'm not looking for anything," she said coolly.
"Everyone here is," he replied. "Even you."
His eyes dipped—just once—taking in her dress, her legs, her expression.
But there was no lust in his gaze.
Just… knowing.
That made her more curious than anything ever had.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He tilted his head, smirking.
"You'll know when it matters."
---
They stood in silence for a beat, the air between them charged. Her pulse betrayed her. A single hitch in her breath.
He leaned closer. "You're not used to being uncertain, are you?"
"I'm never uncertain," she said.
But he smiled like he'd already found the lie in her voice.
Then he stepped back.
And disappeared into the crowd.
Leaving nothing.
Not even a name.
But Amelia's heart was still racing.
She hated that.
She hated that more than anything.
---
By 2:00 AM, she was back in her car, dress wrinkled, lipstick smudged, a second drink still burning in her throat. She didn't remember saying a word to anyone else after that encounter. The rest of the night blurred.
Her phone buzzed.
Sienna.
Sienna: Do not kill me. But there's a small leak in a Luxembourg account. Not urgent. Just a glitch. Want me to handle it?
Amelia stared at the screen.
No, she typed. I need the distraction.
She leaned back, eyes closed.
For the first time in forever… her mind wasn't on business.
It was on him.
Who was he?
Why had he spoken to her like that?
Like she was his equal—no. Worse. Like she was… predictable.
She opened her clutch.
And found a second card.
Not black this time.
But red.
And on it, one word in gold ink:
Grayson.
Her fingers trembled.
Just slightly.
And this time… she smiled.
Not a smirk.
Not a mask.
But something real.
For the first time, Amelia Sinclair felt the game wasn't hers anymore.
And she liked it.
---