After His Sister Pushed Me Down the Stairs

The Met Gala charity auction was the perfect stage for my grand entrance. I smoothed my hands over the scandalous crimson gown that hugged my curves like a second skin, the backless design revealing more than it concealed. The gasps and whispers that followed me through the glittering ballroom were music to my ears.

"Did you see that dress? Completely inappropriate for a charity event."

"I heard she's trying to get Hughes' attention."

I caught fragments of conversations as I passed, but paid them no mind. Let them talk. Tonight wasn't about fitting in—it was about standing out. Specifically, standing out in front of Nevaeh Hughes and her precious brother.

I spotted them across the room, Nevaeh draped in a demure silver gown that screamed "good girl," while Quentin stood beside her in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his face a mask of cool indifference. The Manhattan monk, they called him—untouchable, uninterested.

But I knew better. Everyone had weaknesses.

I positioned myself strategically near the auction items, waiting for my moment. When the rare diamond necklace came up for bid, I struck.

"Fifty thousand," I called out, my voice carrying across the room.

Nevaeh's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing when she saw me. "Sixty thousand," she countered, her voice sweet as poison.

"Eighty thousand," I shot back, smiling directly at her.

We went back and forth until I won with a bid of two hundred thousand dollars. The crowd murmured in surprise—not at the amount, but at the obvious rivalry playing out before them.

As cocktail hour began, I made my move toward Quentin. He stood alone now, nursing a glass of whiskey, his gaze following my approach with cold calculation.

"Nice necklace," he said flatly when I reached him.

"It's not the jewelry I'm interested in," I whispered, leaning close enough that he could smell my perfume. "It's the man holding the checkbook."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. Before he could respond, a commotion erupted from the garden.

Later that evening, I found myself wandering through the mansion's immaculate grounds. The cool night air was a welcome relief after the stifling formality inside. That's when I heard it—a low, menacing growl.

I turned just in time to see a massive German Shepherd lunging toward Quentin, who was several feet away, distracted by a call on his phone. Without thinking, I threw myself between them.

"Quentin!" I screamed, swinging my heavy clutch bag at the dog's snarling face.

The beast's jaws clamped down—not on Quentin's leg as intended, but on my arm. Pain seared through me as teeth tore into flesh. I cried out, dropping to my knees.

In an instant, Quentin was there. He kicked the dog hard, sending it yelping backward. Blood streamed down my arm, staining the crimson dress an even darker shade.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice shaking slightly as he knelt beside me.

"Your security sucks," I gasped through the pain.

Before I could say more, he scooped me into his arms. I felt a thrill that had nothing to do with injury—this was the first time he'd touched me.

"Get my medical team!" he shouted to a nearby security guard, his voice authoritative and panicked.

As he carried me toward the house, I caught sight of Nevaeh watching from a balcony above. Her face was twisted in a mask of jealous rage.

The next morning, my phone exploded with notifications. The photo of Quentin Hughes carrying a bleeding woman had gone viral, trending as #HughesHero.

"To thank you for saving me," Quentin said stiffly when he appeared at my hospital room, "you'll recover at the Hughes estate for a few days."

It was exactly what I wanted—forced proximity, the chance to crack his facade.

That evening, as I sat on the edge of the bed in the guest suite, Quentin entered with a first aid kit.

"I'll change your bandages," he said, sitting beside me.

His fingers were gentle as they unwrapped the gauze, revealing the angry puncture wounds beneath. I winced as he applied antiseptic.

"Sorry," he murmured, his touch softening further.

For a moment, I saw beyond the mask—a glimpse of something warmer, more human beneath the cold exterior.

"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly. "Why did you jump in front of that dog?"

"Wouldn't anyone have done the same?" I countered.

He shook his head. "No. Most people would have run."

As he finished bandaging my arm, our eyes met. Something electric passed between us—until he looked away.

"I should let you rest," he said, standing abruptly.

I nodded, watching as he left the room. But instead of closing the door completely, he paused just outside, his voice drifting back through the crack.

"Let her stay," he said into his phone, his tone now businesslike and cold. "It makes destroying her easier if she's under my roof."

My blood froze in my veins. Destroying me? What did he mean?

The first crack in his perfect facade had appeared—and I had just glimpsed the darkness behind it.