#1 | perfect victim
Everybody calls me a snake, like it’s a bad thing.
But snakes survive. They shed. Adapt. Strike before anyone even registers the ripple in the grass.
I'm a snake, I have to be. But I can't say that I didn't like it.
I claimed a corner of the ballroom the way a predator claims shade. Back to the marble, full view of the glittering ecosystem—men in dark suits, women draped in gemstone colors, all of them pretending their laughter wasn’t sharpened by ambition. Chandeliers dripped honeyed light across polished glass and polished teeth.
Heat gathered where money gathered. And where there was heat, I saw opportunity.
Step one: identify the target. Step two: assess his worth. Step three: find the crack. Step four: pry it open.
Richard Whitaker stood exactly where gravity put him—smiling, nodding, touching just enough elbows to look human. The country’s miracle worker, savior in Armani. He hadn’t held a scalpel in years, yet somehow the medical world whispered his name like he was a prophet. I’d read enough to know better. Men like him hid behind their sainthood. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow.
Always.
Perfect victim for my little game.
I didn’t walk straight to him. I let the room carry me closer. Paused at a photograph of a mountain. Refused a canapé with a smile. Snakes don’t move in straight lines. They wind. They wait. The angle is what makes the bite inevitable.
Richard’s gaze found me before I reached him—predictable. Men like him always believed they were the hunters. His smile sharpened. Then his gaze swept over me—slow, deliberate, undressing without the courtesy of hands. It slid down my body and back up again, leaving a trail of goosebumps across my spine. Not the good kind.
“I heard you’re looking for an assistant,” I said, letting the word hang there like a casual afterthought.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I am. And it seems I’m looking for someone exactly like you.”
My lips curved—sharp.
“I like helping young women in need,” he added, voice slick. “But working for me requires… dedication.”
I met his gaze, steady. “I’m very motivated.”
That landed. Too well. He stepped in—two slow strides. His cologne hitted me first: cloying, too sweet, syrup rotting at the back of my throat. He drew a black card from his pocket, hotel crest glinting under the lights.
“Then let’s see if you’re right for the job,” he said smoothly, pressing it into my hand. Fingers grazing longer than necessary.
So I took the card—let it slip between my fingers, tapped the edge against my palm. A little tease, a hint of what he thought might happen.
Richard’s smile widened, too pleased with himself. “I admire your enthusiasm, miss…?”
“Laurent,” I supplied.
“Charming,” he murmured, his gaze lingering, like he was already rehearsing how I’d look on his arm—or in his bed. His eyes flickered. Hesitation, temptation, both at once.
It was almost too easy.
And if I’m being honest, I didn't even considered going upstairs with him. I rarely do things like that for real. Sex isn’t a big deal to me. I’d gladly fuck a hot guy given the chance, but I won’t do it with some sleazy old man. Most of the time I just let them think I will—temptation and delayed gratification work even better than the real thing.
I let the whispers spread—that he had me, that you could too if the favor was big enough. And men’s egos never let them tell the truth. If they were the only ones who didn’t get lucky, then it had to mean something was wrong with them, right?
And then—
A voice cut through, smooth, low, but laced with something sharper.
I turned.
The man wasn’t dressed for the ballroom—black shirt, open collar, a dark blazer worn like he hadn’t planned on staying. He didn’t need polish. His presence bent the space around him, taller than the men nearby, shoulders broad enough to register as a boundary rather than a shape. People adjusted without realizing it—small steps back, conversations shifting, the room subtly recalibrating.
He was handsome, yes, but that wasn’t what held my attention. There was something sharpened beneath it, something restrained and deliberate, as if he chose—very carefully—how much of himself to allow the world to see. The kind of attraction that didn’t ask for approval and didn’t offer warmth. It settled low in my body before I had time to name it, a quiet awareness, instinctive and exact, like noticing the ground under your feet had changed without warning.
He didn’t announce himself.
He didn’t have to.
He looked straight at Richard, barely glancing at me. Like I was background noise.
Heat licked up my spine.
Anger.
Curiosity.
Both.
He moved toward us and the air shifted.
Richard noticed him fast. I saw it ripple through him—shoulders that had been held broad and certain suddenly drew in, like he was folding into himself. In one breath, the man who had been the center of this ballroom shrank. Older. Smaller.
“Nash,” Richard said tightly, smile fixed but thinning at the edges.
“We need to talk,” he replied, voice low, unyielding. “Soon. We’re partners now, after all.”
Partners. The word landed like a claim. And that, more than the tone, made me curious.
Richard’s jaw locked. “I’m in the middle of an interview with Miss Laurent,” he said, a flicker of irritation breaking through the polish.
Nash’s eyes finally brushed over me. A flick—quick, dismissive. Then back to Richard. His mouth curved, humorless. “An interview? With a key to your room in her hand? How charming.”
Heat prickled along the back of my neck. Not embarrassment—provocation. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t supposed to say it out loud. I tilted my head, letting my smile sharpen.
“I didn’t remember inviting you into this conversation”.
That got his attention. His gaze landed on me this time and stayed, steady as a blade laid flat against skin. He took one measured step toward me and then it hit me—his scent. Clean, sharp, with a darker undertone. Exactly what I’d expected from a distance, yet somehow it disarmed me all the same. A shiver slid down my spine before I could stop it.
His mouth twitched—almost a smile, not quite. “Kitten’s got claws,” he murmured. “Sweet. But I have business to finish here. This isn't a conversation for an audience.”
I stepped closer, ignoring Richard entirely now. “Funny. I thought men who needed to say that were the ones already losing.”
I took one step forward, close enough to almost feel his pulse.
The space between us tightened, compressed into something dense and immediate. He didn’t retreat. Didn’t lean in either. He simply stayed where he was, solid and unmoved, and that was when my body registered the difference.
Up close, I felt smaller—not diminished, not unsure—but aware. A precise, instinctive awareness. The kind that has nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with gravity. The understanding that I wasn’t standing in front of a man who competed or chased or proved himself.
He wasn't my pray and this wasn’t a conversation anymore. It was a test. Two predators circling, waiting to see who would strike first.
Nash tilted his head, his eyes moved over me methodically. “You don’t belong here.”
I let my smile linger, sharp enough to cut. “Funny—I could say the same thing about you.”
“Maybe on the outside. But I’m almost certain, on the inside…it’s the opposite.”
The words landed deeper than they should have. A quick sting low in my stomach, heat rising under my skin. I forced a sharper edge into my smile.
“I fit into any room I want to be in.”
His gaze held steady, unflinching.
“Careful. Force yourself into places you don’t belong, and it’s going to hurt.”
I arched a brow.
“Who said a little hurt can’t be fun?”
For the first time, his mouth curved for real, sharp and deliberate. His eyes darkened, not with anger, but something heavier.
“I’ll keep that in mind. But be careful. Richard prefers women who know how to be…obedient.”
I tilted my head, letting the words roll off my tongue softer this time.
“I can be obedient—when the situation calls for it.” The corner of his mouth tugged even higher. “Besides—shouldn’t he be the one deciding that? No one asked for your opinion anyway.”
I turned back toward Richard—only to find empty space. The room where he’d been standing was already claimed by other bodies, brighter laughter. I caught the faintest glimpse of him across the ballroom, back already turned, his attention elsewhere.
Nash followed my gaze, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He exhaled, sharp and irritated.
“Congratulations. Your little performance just cost me a conversation I should’ve had two weeks ago.”
My smile didn’t falter.
“And you cost me a job I actually need.”
Something like amusement tugged at his mouth. A smirk, low and cutting.
“At least my business isn’t lost yet.” He shifted, already half-turned away, as though dismissing me.
Then he paused and looked back.
“What’s your name? If I ever have to hire someone, I’d like to know who to avoid.”
I let the silence stretch, then gave him the sharpest smile I owned.
“Izabell. Izabell Laurent.”
His eyes lingered for a beat too long, like he was memorizing it. Then he nodded once, almost to himself, before disappearing into the crowd.
