Elena didn't look up from her tablet right away.

Elena didn't look up from her tablet right away. Her fingers flew across the glass screen, color-coding donor seating assignments while balancing a cold cup of coffee between her knees.

"I need three hundred white hydrangea stems delivered by sunrise, a non-conflicted security detail for the west valet entrance, and for people to stop shouting at my coordinators," she said crisp and fast, assuming she was speaking to Marcus.

"The hydrangeas are arriving from Cleveland at 5:00 AM," a deep, gravelly voice answered. "Security for the west entrance has been doubled. And if anyone shouts at your team again, they won't be working in this city by noon."

Elena’s hands froze. She slowly lifted her head.

Vincent Calder stood over her planning table, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his charcoal suit trousers. Up close, the dangerous reality of him hit harder than it had in the foyer three days prior. Up close, you could see the faint silver scar running along his jawline, the shadow of a dark tattoo peeking above his crisp collar, and the total, unyielding focus in his dark grey eyes.

"Mr. Calder," Elena breathed, straightening her spine immediately. "I didn't realize you were..."

"Watching?" Vincent supplied smoothly, stepping closer to the glass table. "I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, Ms. Brooks. You solved a forty-thousand-dollar vendor crisis in three minutes and put my board members in their places without raising your voice once."

Elena cleared her throat, pulling a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I’m just doing my job, sir. The gala is forty-eight hours away. We can't afford chaos."

"The previous director spent two hundred thousand dollars a year to create chaos," Vincent said, pulling a sleek black fountain pen from his breast pocket and placing it on her binder. "As of ten minutes ago, the board accepted his resignation. You are the lead coordinator for the Calder Foundation Gala. Your salary is doubled, effective retroactively to this morning."

Elena blinked, her mouth slightly opening. "I... Mr. Calder, I haven't been approved by the executive committee—"

"I am the executive committee," Vincent cut in quietly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with absolute authority. "Do you accept the position, Elena?"

Hearing her first name on his tongue made a strange, hot pulse ripple through her chest. She had spent two years being an invisible junior coordinator, ignored by wealthy board members who only saw her as someone who cleared empty water glasses. Now, the most dangerous man in Pittsburgh was looking at her like she was the only person in the building who mattered.

"Yes," Elena said, her voice steadying. "I accept."

"Good." Vincent leaned over the table slightly, his scent—expensive sandalwood, cold winter air, and faint tobacco—wrapping around her senses. "Now tell me what else you need to make this night perfect."

Before Elena could answer, the double doors of the ballroom slammed open.

Julian Vance—a senior board member and majority shareholder in several rival shipping firms—marched into the room, flanked by two attorneys.

"Calder!" Vance yelled, his face flushed red with rage. "What is the meaning of this? I just received notice that my private balcony seating at the gala has been reassigned to... to scholarship recipients?!"

Elena didn't flinch. She stepped sideways, placing herself directly between Vance and her planning table.

"Mr. Vance," Elena said, her tone cool and professional. "The balcony seating was reallocated to ensure that the students being honored tomorrow night are seated near the main stage. Your corporate group has been moved to Table Four on the primary floor—which has prime proximity to the bar and exit."

"Table Four?!" Vance sneered, turning his furious glare onto Elena. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to, girl? I donate five hundred thousand dollars a year to this foundation! You're a low-level temp! I want you off this property by—"

"Finish that sentence," Vincent’s voice dropped into a register so low and lethal that the ambient noise of seventy contractors in the ballroom vanished instantly.

Vincent didn't raise his voice. He simply took two slow, deliberate steps forward, placing his broad frame beside Elena. The room grew suffocatingly cold.

"Finish the sentence, Julian," Vincent repeated, his eyes dark, flat, and devoid of any humanity. "Tell me what you plan to do to my lead coordinator."

Vance swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he looked from Vincent’s ruthless face to the two massive men in dark suits who had silently appeared in the doorway behind him.

"Vincent... she altered the donor hierarchy," Vance stammered, his bravado instantly evaporating. "It’s a matter of respect."

"Respect is earned," Vincent said, stepping closer until Vance had to tilt his head back to look up at him. "Ms. Brooks runs this event. If she puts you at Table Four, you sit at Table Four. If she puts you in the parking lot, you eat your dinner in your car. Do we understand each other?"

Vance went pale, nodding once through gritted teeth. "Understood."

"Get out of my sight," Vincent ordered softly.

Vance and his lawyers practically sprinted out of the ballroom.

Elena released a slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She turned to Vincent. "Thank you. But you didn't have to threaten a major donor for me."