CHADLABS Scholarly Hub
Eleanor
The Sterling Foundation Gala was not just a charity event—it was the event. Black-tie only. Photographers lined the entryway like wolves. The ballroom at the top of the Wilshire Grand glittered with chandeliers, live strings echoing beneath high ceilings. It was the kind of evening meant to seduce—elegance sharpened into weaponry.
Eleanor’s gown was crimson satin, sleek and nearly backless, clinging to her hips like it had been stitched for sin. Her hair was swept up, soft tendrils curling at the nape of her neck. She felt almost anonymous in the crowd of curated beauty, but she also felt watched.
She always felt watched when he was near.
She hadn’t seen Marcus arrive, but she felt him before she spotted him. A hum just beneath her skin. A knowing.
She stood near the silent auction table, pretending to study an overpriced art piece, when she felt it—that invisible line tugging from across the room.
She looked up.
There he was.
Marcus Sterling.
In a tuxedo so immaculately tailored it should’ve been illegal. Black lapels. Starched collar. Hair swept back in that effortlessly arrogant way. But it was his eyes that undid her. Violet-blue. Sharp. Focused. Unflinching.
He was looking at her like she was the only person in the room.
The memory of Chicago flashed in her mind like a fever—his mouth on her skin, his voice ragged in the dark. Her thighs clenched instinctively, the heat curling low in her belly.
She turned away too fast, fingers tightening around her wine glass. Breathe.
Behind her, she heard murmured greetings and the soft rustle of movement. And then—
“Red has always suited you.”
His voice. Right at her back. Smooth and low, like warm bourbon.
Eleanor turned slowly, spine straight, the professional mask already sliding into place. But when her eyes met his, it faltered.
“Mr. Sterling,” she said, voice calm. Controlled.
His gaze dipped, lingering on the curve of her waist, the line of her bare back. “I didn’t expect you to wear that.”
She arched an eyebrow. “It’s appropriate for the event.”
“It’s appropriate for sin,” he murmured.
Her breath caught.
He was standing too close.
Too close in a way no one else would notice, but she did. His body was heat and gravity, his cologne—subtle, masculine, devastating—curling around her like smoke.
Her pulse stuttered.
“You should mingle,” she said.
“I am.” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re the only one worth mingling with.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, willing her body not to react. But it was already betraying her. Her nipples tightened under the silk of her dress. A slow throb began between her legs.
“Be careful,” she said, voice low.
“Why?” he asked, stepping even closer, their bodies almost aligned now. His hand brushed her lower back, fingertips grazing bare skin. “Afraid someone will see?”
“I’m afraid I won’t stop you.”
A beat. A shared breath.
The moment stretched—too intimate, too charged.
And then a man with a microphone announced the start of the silent auction. The crowd shifted, clapping politely.
Marcus didn’t move.
“You're not the only one who remembers the terrace,” he said quietly.
Her eyes widened.
“The way you looked in moonlight,” he added, “the way you came apart under me… I didn’t remember right away. But tonight… you’ve made it impossible to forget.”
She felt her knees weaken.
“I should go,” she whispered.
“You should stay,” he countered. “Stay and dance with me.”
Before she could answer, the music changed.
Tradition dictated that the CEO begin the first dance with one of the key event organizers.
Apparently, tonight, that was her.
A handler stepped forward, gesturing politely.
Marcus didn’t wait for approval—he simply held out his hand.
Eleanor stared at it. Then, slowly, she took it.
His fingers closed around hers—firm, warm, possessive. And then he was leading her onto the dance floor.
The crowd parted. All eyes on them.
But it felt like the world had gone still.
One hand at her waist, the other guiding hers, Marcus pulled her close. Too close for a professional dance. His palm burned against her lower back, fingertips skimming the curve of her spine. She felt every inch of him—his strength, his restraint, the tension simmering beneath his tuxedo.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she whispered.
He leaned in, voice brushing her throat. “Then play it with me.”
The music was slow. Elegant.
But the way he moved wasn’t elegant—it was deliberate. His thigh pressed between hers, brushing the slit of her dress. Her breath caught.
“People are watching,” she said, voice tight.
“I know.”
He dipped his head until his lips were barely above hers, not kissing—threatening to.
“I could take you against that wall,” he said, barely audible, “and you’d beg me not to stop.”
She gasped softly.
But it wasn’t just Eleanor who noticed.
Across the room, Sienna Fairchild stood near the champagne fountain, her eyes locked on the couple at the center of the ballroom.
Her painted lips tightened. Her knuckles whitened around the flute she held.
How dare she.
That girl—his assistant—had no business wearing a dress like that, standing so close, looking up at Marcus like he belonged to her. Like she was anything more than a temporary convenience.
Sienna’s jaw clenched as she watched Marcus whisper something at Eleanor’s ear, watched Eleanor lean closer, her body soft and yielding in his arms.
It was a silent, public claim.
And the worst part?
He hadn’t even glanced in Sienna’s direction all night.
A slow, seething anger unfurled inside her. This little employee thought she was winning something. Thought she was special.
She didn’t know who she was dealing with.
But she would.
Soon.
Back on the dance floor, the final notes of the music faded.
Marcus pulled back, just slightly.
“This isn’t over,” he murmured.
Then he was gone.
And Eleanor was left in the center of the ballroom, breathless, burning, and utterly, devastatingly undone.
