The Astor Heiress

Anton Prescott

“I’m sorry, Anton, but Pip is running a fever, and I don’t want to leave him tonight.” My sister’s voice is tight with worry, and in the background, I can hear the hoarse, miserable coughing of my nephew.

“Of course. Take care of him—I can handle the event,” I reply smoothly, though I already feel the irritation creeping in.

Truth be told, I fucking hate these events. The forced smiles, the empty flattery, the endless parade of egos wrapped in designer tuxedos. Angie usually handles this shit—she’s the one with the effortless charm, the one who makes the Prescott name look good. And let’s be honest, her marriage to Albert Beaumont, the Beaumont heir, carries more weight than anything I bring to the table.

Tonight will be just another goddamn evening of calculated conversation, veiled judgment, and the ever-present weight of expectation.

But no matter how much I detest it, I’d never ask my sister to leave her sick son just to suffer through one of these soulless gatherings. Angie found something real, something I can only fucking envy—a family, love, a life untouched by the cold grip of old money’s suffocating bullshit.

And against all odds, she found it in Albert fucking Beaumont—the most insufferably blue-blooded heir I can think of. If there were a god of old money dynasties, Albert would be his golden boy, draped in bespoke suits and generational wealth, sipping vintage scotch while discussing market trends like it’s some great intellectual pursuit. Yet somehow, beneath all that privilege, Angie saw something worth loving.

Lucky her.

And to his credit, the guy is fucking obsessed with her. Like kiss-the-ground-she-walks-on, would-probably-kill-for-her level of devotion. I wasn’t sure about him at first—how could I be? I’ve seen too many of these entitled trust-fund assholes who treat their wives like accessories, parading them around at galas before discreetly fucking their secretaries. But Albert? No. The guy looks at Angie like she’s his goddamn sun and moon. Like if she asked, he’d burn down his family fortune just to prove a point.

And Angie and I—we have a deal. She trusts me. I trust her. If she says she’s happy, then that’s all that fucking matters.

Doesn’t mean I have to like the guy. But I respect him. And in our world, that’s about as good as it fucking gets.

And like it or not, he gave Angie my nephew. My Pip.

That kid—Jesus Christ. I never expected to love anyone like this. I’ve spent my entire life surrounded by people who smile like sharks, shake hands like they’re closing deals, and give hugs that feel like corporate mergers. But Pip? He’s fucking real. No pretenses, no expectations, just a tiny human who looks at me like I hung the goddamn stars in the sky. That kid loves me unconditionally, and I’d kill for him without a second thought. Hell, I’d burn the whole fucking world down if he so much as shed a tear.

So yeah, maybe I don’t love Albert Beaumont. But I can’t hate the bastard either. Not when he gave me the one person in this whole godforsaken world who makes this shit worth it.

Pip is the only person who looks at me and sees me, not the Prescott name, not the old money, not the cold, calculated expectations stitched into every fucking suit I own. He doesn’t give a shit about any of it—he just wants me to read him the same dumb dinosaur book for the hundredth time or let him fall asleep on my chest like I’m the safest place in the world. And fuck, if that isn’t the most grounding thing I’ve ever known.

So for Pip, and for Angie—who deserves every goddamn ounce of happiness she’s found. And maybe, just maybe, for Albert fucking Beaumont, who—against all odds—actually loves my sister the way she deserves.

I’m dragging my ass to this god-awful event.

I’ll shake the hands, nod in all the right places, sip overpriced scotch, and pretend I give a shit about whatever legacy-obsessed bullshit these people are droning on about. I’ll do it because this is the price of the name I carry. And because, at the end of the night, I can walk away knowing that my sister and my nephew—the only two people who truly matter—are safe, happy, and untouched by all this fucking noise.

But first, I have to get through this—whatever pretentious excuse for an event I just dragged my ass to.

The second I step out of the car, I’m hit with blinding flashes. Paparazzi swarm like vultures, camera lenses glinting under the artificial glow of the chandeliers spilling light onto the red carpet. The air is thick with the scent of wealth—expensive perfume, cigar smoke, aged bourbon. Somewhere in the crowd, someone calls my name, probably some society page leech looking for a quote to slap under my face in tomorrow’s tabloids.

It’s a gala. Charity something. Probably children, or world hunger, or saving the fucking whales. Not that anyone here actually cares. It’s just another excuse to parade around in couture, sip champagne that costs more than most people’s rent, and pretend like they’re doing something noble while their accountants find new ways to dodge taxes.

The crowd is the same as always—women with faces pulled so tight they probably can’t blink, their designer gowns practically screaming I married rich, look at me. Old men who refuse to accept their expiration date, grinning like jackals, their second and third wives clinging to their arms like fucking accessories. Trust-fund brats in tailored suits, already half-drunk and high off their asses, laughing too loudly at jokes that aren’t fucking funny. And, of course, the power players—the old money names, the real forces behind everything, the ones who actually run this city from their penthouse boardrooms while the rest of us dance to whatever fucking tune they play.

Same old shit. Different overpriced venue.

I exhale sharply, roll my shoulders, and straighten my tie. Time to get this fucking over with.

I move through the crowd, bourbon in hand, offering the occasional nod, the practiced smirk, the meaningless pleasantries. The same vapid conversations swirl around me—stock market trends, who bought which vineyard in Napa, whose unfortunate divorce is making waves. It’s all so fucking predictable I could mouth the words along with them.

I’m bored out of my goddamn mind when something cuts through the dull hum of bullshit—a conversation that actually piques my interest.

“So, how was it? The Astor girl?” one of them asks, voice dripping with the entitled, lazy arrogance only a third-generation trust-fund brat can pull off.

“Oh, dude, it was fucking awful,” the other guy groans. “That girl is a total horse weirdo. I don’t care how rich she is or how much my dad wanted this shit to work.”

Astors, huh? Now that is a name I haven’t heard in a while.

Once upon a time, they were the horse-money family. Old-world, my-grandfather-bred-racehorses-for-European-royalty kind of wealthy. Then, like so many others, one unlucky generation pissed away the fortune—bad investments, too many private jets, maybe a coke habit or two. Whatever the fuck happened, they fell out of society’s inner circle.

But here they are again, clawing their way back.

“Oh, come on, it couldn’t have been that bad,” one of the idiots prods, swirling his drink like he has a single original thought in his skull. “Isn’t she the one making all the money again?”

“I don’t fucking care,” the other guy groans. “That chick took one look at me and said, ‘Not a rider? What a surprise.’”

I nearly choke on my bourbon.

That’s fucking gold.

Whoever this Astor girl is, I already like her. Because I know exactly the type of guy she was dealing with—some spineless legacy brat who’s never had to work a real day in his life, coasting off his last name and whatever connections Daddy bought for him. The kind of guy who probably thought he was doing her a favor just by showing up, and instead got his fragile little ego shattered in one sentence.

Fucking priceless.

I smirk behind my bourbon glass, biting back a laugh. Not a rider? What a surprise. Jesus. That was brutal.

And dead fucking accurate.

I don’t even need to turn around to know exactly what kind of guy she was dealing with—some soft-palmed, trust-fund prick who probably thinks “hard work” means sitting on a board his father bought him a seat on. The kind of guy whose idea of an “equestrian experience” is betting on the Derby from a VIP box while sipping Dom Pérignon.

“You should’ve seen her face, man,” he groans, still licking his wounds. “Like I personally offended her by existing. I swear to God, I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that she actually knows how to run a business or that she’s still obsessed with fucking horses.”

“You dodged a bullet, bro,” his friend replies, shaking his head. “No amount of money is worth dealing with a crazy horse girl.”

I roll my eyes so hard I might sprain something.

Typical. These assholes wouldn’t know a real woman if she slapped them across the face. They’re too used to the ones who were raised for this—the polished, obedient socialites trained from birth to be the perfect trophy wives. They wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with a woman who actually has a spine.

And from the sound of it, Miss Astor? She’s got a fucking backbone.

I make a mental note to remember the name. If she’s really making money again, she’s doing something right. And if she’s the kind of woman who can shut down a jackass like this in one sentence?

Well.

That’s someone worth keeping an eye on.

The gala drags on, ending without a single goddamn surprise. Just another night of overpriced liquor, fake laughs, and the same people congratulating themselves for simply existing. I go home, pour myself a real drink, and get on with my life like usual.

Then, about a month later, I hear the name again.

The Astor Rise to Power!

Watch Out for Katherine Astor: The Mind Behind the Old Money Revival!

I scroll past the headlines at first, assuming it’s just another puff piece about some rich kid trying to buy their way back into relevance. But then I keep seeing it. Financial papers, business columns, even the goddamn equestrian blogs.

So, I dig.

I’m not exactly an expert on horses—aside from knowing the kind of people who throw millions at them like it’s pocket change. But the more I read, the more I have to concede—this Katherine Astor isn’t just making a comeback. She’s staging a fucking coup.

Her grandfather ran the family’s fortune into the ground, the way most of these old-money burnouts do—bad investments, too many luxury properties, probably trusted the wrong people. But her? She’s flipping the entire game on its head.

Revamping bloodlines. Buying back land. Locking in sponsorship deals with the kind of elite names that don’t just throw their money at anyone. And the numbers? They don’t lie.

Katherine Astor isn’t trying to rebuild.

She’s already fucking doing it.

And yet—for all the headlines, all the speculation, all the noise—there isn’t a single goddamn thing about the woman herself.

Not a picture. Not a paparazzi shot. No carefully staged socialite appearances, no charity galas, no oh-look-at-me-sipping-champagne-in-Versailles bullshit. She doesn’t do interviews, doesn’t give quotes, doesn’t play the game. For all intents and purposes, she’s a ghost. A name making power moves behind the scenes, while the rest of high society scrambles to figure out who the fuck she even is.

Which makes that trust-fund prick from a month ago either the luckiest bastard alive or too fucking stupid to realize the rare company he was in.

Because if he somehow got a face-to-face with Katherine Astor, and all he took away from it was some bruised ego over not being a “rider”?

Then she’s exactly as smart as I think she is.

And I’ll be damned if I’m not getting curious.

Because this doesn’t happen. People like her don’t stay hidden. Not in our world. Old money thrives on visibility—on whispered alliances forged over champagne toasts, on strategic marriages arranged over charity luncheons. Even the ones who claim to hate the spotlight still make an appearance when it fucking matters.

But Katherine Astor?

Nothing.

No debutante photos. No Town & Country features from her teenage years. Not even a goddamn LinkedIn profile. It’s like she just fucking appeared one day, already in motion, already making moves before anyone even realized she was a threat.

And that? That’s fucking dangerous.

Because in this world, if people can’t see you, they can’t predict you. They can’t get ahead of you. They can’t control you.

Which means this woman—whoever the fuck she is—knows exactly what she’s doing.

And I need to know more.

So I do what any rational person would do when faced with a mystery.

I make some fucking calls.

And let me tell you—digging up information on Katherine Astor is like trying to get blood from a fucking stone.

I start with the usual channels—society gossip, financial analysts, old-money dinosaurs who’ve been around long enough to remember when the Astors actually mattered. Most of them give me the same recycled bullshit.

“Oh, yes, the Astors. Tragic fall from grace.”

“Isn’t the granddaughter doing something with horses?”

“I heard she’s trying to marry back into the fold—smart girl, that one.”

Useless.

The financial crowd knows a little more—how she’s restructuring the family estate, how she’s leveraging bloodlines and breeding programs like a goddamn Wall Street shark. There’s real money moving behind her name, but no one seems to know her.

No appearances. No fucking social media. No leaks.

I even reach out to a journalist I know—someone who makes a living off unearthing skeletons from our gilded closets. He calls me back two days later, sounding equal parts impressed and pissed off.

“Either this woman is a goddamn ghost, or she has the best fucking PR team I’ve ever seen,” he tells me. “I’ve got nothing, Prescott. No scandals, no ex-lovers looking for a payout, no cocaine-fueled Monte Carlo weekends. Whoever she is, she’s either clean or really fucking good at making sure no one talks.”

Interesting.

Because here’s the thing—no one in our world is clean. Everyone has dirt, whether it’s public or buried six feet under NDAs.

So either Katherine Astor is some kind of goddamn anomaly…

Or she’s covering her tracks better than anyone I’ve ever seen.

And both possibilities make me want to meet her even more.

But people like Katherine Astor don’t just meet people like me. She’s not showing up at a gala, sipping champagne while some billionaire heir tries to impress her with his offshore accounts. She’s playing a different game—one where the moves are calculated, the stakes are high, and every step forward is another layer of power carefully locked into place.

So I tell myself to let it go.

And I almost fucking do.

Then, just when I’m about to drop the whole thing, another event invitation lands on my desk.

One of a dozen, probably. The usual bullshit—charity dinners, fundraisers, some over-the-top engagement party for a couple who probably hate each other already. Normally, I’d toss them all to Angie and let her handle it.

But then I see it.

Embossed in thick, gold lettering, like it actually means something.

ASTOR’S WINNING STUD PRESENTATION – 2025

A horse event.

And apparently, the event.

This is where the real players show up. The old-money equestrians, the investors, the international buyers with their private jets and bottomless fucking pockets. The ones who treat million-dollar stallions like stock options, who make deals over whiskey that costs more than most people’s salaries. It’s not some glittering society cocktail party full of socialites desperate to be seen—this is business.

And according to this invitation, it’s Astor’s fucking showcase.

Her move. Her game.

I lean back in my chair, tapping the thick cardstock against my desk, rolling the idea over in my mind.

Katherine Astor has been a ghost—untouchable, untraceable, nothing but a name attached to a growing empire. But this? This is different.

She has to show up. Has to.

This isn’t some charity gala she can skip, some press event she can delegate. No, this is her world, the kingdom she’s clawing back from the grave. If she wants the power, if she wants to play at this level, she has to stand in the fucking ring and own it.

Which means, for the first time, she’ll be right in front of me.

I turn the invitation over, considering. I don’t give a single fuck about horses, but I do care about power. And right now, Katherine Astor has a lot of it. More than people expected. More than should even be possible for someone with a last name that was considered dead just a few years ago.

So the real question is—how?

How the fuck did she pull this off? And more importantly—what the fuck is she planning next?

I let out a slow breath, my smirk sharpening.

Looks like I finally have a way in.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t take it.

The day of the event rolls around.

Sunday. Morning. The kind of morning that smells like money—freshly cut grass, leather, expensive perfume, and champagne so overpriced it might as well be liquid gold.

It’s exactly what I expected.

Mimosas in crystal flutes, wide-brimmed hats straight out of an old-money fever dream, and enough Ralph Lauren to make the whole place look like a goddamn ad campaign. Scarves knotted just right, designer boots that probably haven’t touched actual dirt in years.

And the people?

These aren’t just casual horse lovers or bored socialites playing dress-up. No, this crowd is serious. Equestrian moguls, international investors, old-money families with legacies built on bloodlines older than some countries. Even fucking royalty—actual European aristocrats who’ve been in the game so long they don’t even have last names, just titles.

They’re not just here to watch.

They’re here to analyze.

To dissect every detail, every movement, every transaction. To decide whether Katherine Astor is a real player or just another desperate heir clawing at a legacy that should’ve died generations ago.

And me?

I’m here to see her.

To finally put a face to the name. To figure out just what kind of woman can drag a dead empire out of the grave and make the whole world pay attention.

I take a sip of my drink, watching the field, waiting.

Show me what you’ve got, Miss Astor.

The show begins, and it’s exactly what I expected—men in tailored blazers and women in pristine riding boots murmuring to each other, eyes sharp, calculating. This isn’t just a fucking horse show. It’s a goddamn chess match.

Bloodlines. Breeding. Performance. Investments.

The announcer drones on about lineage, championships, and other equestrian bullshit I don’t fully understand. Half of it sounds like someone reading off a royal family tree, the other half like a goddamn stock report. People nod, whisper, sip their drinks. Some scribble notes, others lean in as if a single misstep will make or break a multi-million-dollar decision.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, the announcer’s tone shifts.

“And now, we’ll see Miss Katherine Astor showcase the fast riding of Thunder, one of Astor’s most prized stallions.”

The energy in the crowd shifts. A ripple of interest, subtle but there.

And just like that, every motherfucker here is paying attention.

Including me.

I straighten, rolling my glass between my fingers, training my eyes on the presentation ring. The gates open, and for the first time, she steps into view.

Katherine fucking Astor.

The ghost. The enigma. The woman who pulled a dead empire out of the dirt and made it relevant again.

And fuck, does she know how to make an entrance.

She rides like she was born in the saddle—like the horse isn’t just a prized investment but an extension of herself. There’s a grace to it, something effortless, something that shouldn’t be possible at the speed she’s going. Thunder moves like his namesake—fast, powerful, fucking electric—but she? She’s steady, precise. Not just hanging on, but in control.

And Jesus fucking Christ, she’s beautiful.

Long blonde hair, neatly braided but coming undone at the edges from the sheer speed of the ride. Equestrian pants hugging long, lean legs, polished riding boots that look worn just enough to be functional, not decorative. A crisp white blouse, somehow still immaculate despite the wind and speed, like even the dust and sweat don’t fucking dare touch her.

She’s everything an old-money equestrian heiress should be. The kind of woman who doesn’t just wear the legacy—she embodies it. She owns it.

And as she rides, I can feel the entire fucking crowd watching.

Not just admiring. Not just analyzing.

Respecting.

No one here is questioning whether she belongs. No one is whispering about Astor’s decline. No one is thinking about the money lost, the failures of past generations.

Because right now, all they see is her.

And in this world, that’s power.

I take a slow sip of my drink, smirking to myself.

So this is Katherine Astor.

And then she turns.

She slows Thunder to a steady canter, guiding the massive stallion like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world, posture straight, movements effortless. She does a slow roundabout for the crowd, and that’s when I get a real look at her.

And fuck me, I was not prepared.

Green eyes—not just green, but that rare, deep emerald that catches the light and burns right through you. No makeup, not a single layer of artifice to hide behind, just soft, creamy skin that hasn’t been ruined by fillers or excessive tanning like half the socialites in this crowd. She’s lean, all subtle muscle and natural grace, a body shaped by years of riding, of control, of discipline.

She’s petite, sure, but there’s nothing delicate about her. She looks like a goddamn porcelain doll until you meet her eyes—sharp, unwavering, so fucking alive it throws you off balance. There’s something behind them, something calculating, something that doesn’t just see people but reads them.

The crowd watches her with admiration. Respect. Maybe even a little fucking fear.

I watch her with something else entirely.

Because now I have to meet her.

Not because she’s beautiful—though, fuck, she is. But because women like her? Women who walk into a world built to watch them fail and force it to kneel instead?

That’s not just beauty. That’s power.

And power like that?

It’s always worth chasing.

After the showcase, I watch as she makes her way toward the crowd.

Still in equestrian gear—riding boots kicking up dust, gloves tucked under her arm, blouse somehow still pristine—she’s the fucking center of the room without even trying. People flock to her like moths to a flame, eager, curious, hungry. They want to see her, to get a feel for the woman who just rode circles around this entire event.

And one thing becomes very fucking clear:

Katherine Astor doesn’t entertain bullshit.

She’s polite—so polite, it’s almost a weapon. A well-placed smile, a nod, a perfectly controlled, thank you, I appreciate that, before she cuts the conversation off at the knees. No unnecessary pleasantries, no mindless society gossip, no indulging the leeches circling her, hoping to get a piece of whatever empire she’s dragging back from the dead.

They probe—because of course they do. They ask about family, about her plans, about who she’s seeing. The same tired fucking questions they always throw at women in her position.

But she doesn’t bite.

She deflects, smooth as silk, shifting the conversation right back to business. To horses. To things that fucking matter.

And it’s goddamn impressive.

Because these people? They’re not used to being dismissed. Not by someone they want something from. But she does it with a kind of effortless grace that makes it impossible to be offended.

She’s in control. Of the conversation. Of the room. Of every single fucking person trying to get a read on her.

And that includes me.

So I stay on the sidelines, watching.

She works the crowd like a goddamn professional, and not in the way the usual socialites do—with fake laughs and empty pleasantries—but with purpose. The horse moguls? They’re fucking impressed. You can see it in the way they lean in, the way they nod with real respect instead of indulgence. This isn’t some heiress coasting on a last name—this is a woman who knows her shit.

She books meetings, schedules tours of her ranch, invites the right people at the right time. Not desperate, not overeager—just a controlled, calculated expansion of power, piece by fucking piece.

And I can see it now, clear as day.

This woman has been working—relentlessly, probably for years, grinding behind the scenes while the world wrote her off as another fallen old-money casualty. But that’s the thing about people like her. The ones who lose everything and still find a way to fucking rise.

They don’t just want to rebuild.

They want to win.

And that’s what this is. This isn’t just the revival of a dead old-money name. This isn’t some vanity project or half-assed attempt to claw back into high society.

This is her final fucking move.

The moment where all the pieces click into place.

She’s played this game to perfection—handled the real power players first, locked in the actual deals, made sure the people who matter walk away seeing her as a force, not a novelty. And now, only once that’s done, does she shift her attention to the adjacents.

Which, unfortunately, includes me.

The old-money crowd who aren’t in the horse circuit but still take up space in rooms like these. The ones whose presence means something even if we aren’t signing checks for stud fees or championship horses. We hold weight in different ways—legacy, influence, the social currency that still fucking matters whether anyone wants to admit it or not.

And I can see it so clearly—how her entire approach changes.

The way her smile tightens just a fraction. The way her posture relaxes just enough to feign ease but not enough to suggest she actually gives a fuck. She’s playing nice, but this? This is obligation.

She doesn’t need us.

She just has to deal with us.

And fuck, if that doesn’t make me like her even more.

Because I know this game. I’ve played it a thousand fucking times—shaking hands, entertaining bullshit conversations, making sure the right people see you in the right places. It’s all a performance, one we’re both intimately familiar with.

But the difference is—I don’t want to be another handshake she forgets by the time she leaves.

So when she finally makes her way toward my corner of the room, I set my drink down, straighten my tie, and smirk.

Let’s see if I can get her attention this time.

“Mr. Prescott,” she says smoothly as she steps in front of me, and holy fucking shit, her voice.

It’s not what I expected. Raspy. Low. Sweet in a way that doesn’t try to be. Like whiskey and honey, like something that lingers in the back of your mind long after you’ve walked away.

“I’m happy you were able to attend the event,” she continues, her gaze steady, unreadable. “How’s your sister doing?”

And just like that, I know exactly what kind of woman I’m dealing with.

Because there’s so much buried in that one line.

She knows I don’t usually show up to this kind of shit. That it’s Angie who does the rounds, who wears the Prescott name like it fucking means something, who plays the game so I don’t have to.

She knows that I’m not the face of the family, that I don’t give a fuck about the politics of high society, that my presence here isn’t just coincidence.

And when she says it, when she looks at me with those sharp green eyes, there’s something there—something.

A flicker of curiosity. Calculation. And maybe, just maybe… a little fucking envy.

Because I don’t have to do this.

Because my last name alone carries enough weight that I can disappear from these circles whenever I damn well please. Because I don’t have to scrape and claw and prove my place the way she’s had to.

And I think she fucking hates that.

Just a little.

Good.

Because I want to see what happens when someone like her—sharp, driven, relentless—wants something she thinks she can’t have.

I lean in slightly, just enough to lower my voice, just enough to see if I can make that flicker in her eyes burn a little brighter.

“She’s doing well,” I say, watching her carefully. “But I have to admit, I’m a little surprised you know that much about me, Miss Astor.”

Her lips curve, just slightly, just enough to tell me she’s not surprised at all.

“I make it my business to know who’s worth knowing, Mr. Prescott.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

There’s no coyness in her voice, no flirty subtext, no batting eyelashes to soften the weight of her words. She says it like it’s a simple fact, like I’ve already been weighed and measured and deemed worthy enough to register on her radar.

And yet… there’s something else there too. Something behind those sharp green eyes, something calculated, something that wants.

Not me, necessarily. Not yet.

But something.

She’s studying me. Assessing. Trying to figure out why the fuck I showed up when everyone in this room knows I don’t give a single shit about horses.

So I give her something to chew on.

“Good,” I murmur, tilting my head slightly. “Then you already know I don’t waste my time with things that don’t interest me.”

Her lips quirk, just a fraction, but she doesn’t let me have the full smirk. Not yet.

“And yet, here you are.”

Her tone is smooth, light, but underneath it, I can hear the challenge.

Because she knows. She fucking knows.

I’m not here for the horses.

I’m not here for the business deals, the networking, the endless dick-measuring contest between billionaires and aristocrats.

I’m here because of her.

And she wants to know why.

So I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the moment stretch just enough, watching the way she watches me.

“What can I say, Miss Astor? You’ve made things… interesting.”

She exhales softly, a breath that might’ve been a laugh if she let it be.

“I do tend to have that effect.”

Oh, fuck me, she’s good.

She knows exactly what she’s doing, exactly how much to give, exactly when to pull back. It’s a power play, wrapped in silk, hidden behind a perfect smile and a voice that’s both sharp and sweet at the same time.

And if she thinks that’s going to make me lose my footing—

Well.

She doesn’t know me yet.

So I smirk, leaning in just enough to lower my voice.

“Then by all means, Miss Astor—" I hold her gaze, unflinching, steady. “Keep my interest.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t falter.

But her lips?

Her lips curve into a real smile this time. Not the polite, businesslike one she’s been handing out all night. Not the careful, calculated ones that keep people at a distance. No—this one is different.

Sharper. Amused. A little fucking dangerous.

And fuck, I like it.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me, considering. Like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort, whether entertaining me is a good use of her very valuable time.

I hold her gaze, patient, unbothered, letting her play whatever game she thinks she’s playing. Because here’s the thing—she’s not dealing with some trust-fund dumbass who’s going to fawn over her just because she’s beautiful and successful.

She’s dealing with me.

“Tell me, Mr. Prescott,” she says after a moment, voice smooth as silk. “Are you in the market for a racehorse, or are you just here to look pretty and drink my champagne?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I let out a quiet laugh, low and amused, before taking a sip of my bourbon. She’s bold. Not in the reckless, attention-seeking way most women in these circles are—no, Katherine Astor wields her confidence like a scalpel, sharp and precise.

“I was under the impression looking pretty and drinking champagne was half the job at these things,” I say, smirking. “But no, Miss Astor, I’m not in the market for a racehorse.”

She hums, like that answer doesn’t surprise her at all.

“Then what are you in the market for?”

Ah. There it is.

The real question. The one she’s been circling since the moment she walked up to me.

I could play with her, drag it out, make her work for it. But I have a feeling she’d see through that kind of bullshit immediately. And besides—I’m not interested in wasting either of our time.

So I meet her gaze, steady, and tell her the truth.

“Right now? Just you.”

There’s a flicker in her expression. A shift. Small, but noticeable.

And for the first time tonight, I see her—not the businesswoman, not the horse-world prodigy, not the poised, untouchable Astor heiress.

Just Katherine.

And I think, just for a second—she likes that answer.

But she doesn’t let it show for long.

“Well then, Mr. Prescott,” she murmurs, tilting her head, eyes gleaming with something I can’t quite place yet. “I guess we’ll see if you can keep up.”

Oh, sweetheart.

You have no fucking idea.