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His dimples appeared. “Same thing.”

I stayed near him while he moved through the rooftop greeting people, shaking hands, and stopping for pictures. He never had to tell me where to stand or how to move around him. I had learned how to exist around powerful people without making myself smaller or needing to prove I belonged there.

Ares liked that about me.

One of the Forbes executives eventually stopped him for a toast. Cameras started flashing while Ares raised his cognac and spoke in French.

“Le monde ne respecte pas les héritiers. Il respecte les conquérants.”

The world doesn’t respect heirs. It respects conquerors.

Some people laughed as if they understood him, but Ares never translated it for them. He didn’t need to. Whatever he said, he meant it.

Later, when most of the party had moved inside, Ares and I were left on the balcony overlooking the city.

He stood near the glass railing with his attention on the skyline.

“You see all this?” he asked. “It started with my momma getting shot and a will I knew nothing about. I turned blood into gold.”

I looked at him. “What do you mean?”

He smiled and took another drink.

“You’ll understand one day.”

I searched his face for more, but he was already looking back toward the city.

This was his city and his empire, and standing beside him made me feel something I knew I probably shouldn’t.

Ares was a man I could never completely figure out, but I wanted to.

Later that night, he drove me home in his blood-red Bugatti. The car turned heads even through the limo-tinted windows, and knowing it was bulletproof reminded me that Ares lived in a world where even something beautiful had to be prepared for somebody trying to kill him.

We didn’t talk much on the ride because we had already spent most of the afternoon together in his downtown penthouse before the celebration. Hours in his bed had left enough memories on my body that I could still feel his mouth and hands on me while I sat beside him.

When we reached my condo, Ares reached across the console and touched my chin before kissing me.

He pulled away wearing the smirk I had already learned to crave.

“Next Sunday is yours.”

I smiled. “I know. They’re always mine, baby.”

We hugged and kissed again before I got out of the car. I stood there long enough to watch his taillights disappear before forcing myself to go upstairs.

By the time I showered, poured myself a glass of wine, and opened my laptop, it was after midnight. Lo-fi music played through the speakers while I worked at my dining table on floor plans for another client’s gala. My planner sat beside me with notes written in the neat lines I had always preferred.

School and event planning had saved me because they were two of the only things in my life that always made sense.

I grew up in a very put-together home. My mother ran our house like a corporation. Every towel had to be folded the same way, every cabinet had a label, and every holiday dinner looked ready for a magazine spread.

Order was her love language, and somewhere along the way, it became mine too.

That type of structure shaped who I became. When my environment was neat and controlled, I felt the same way.

Event planning was more than a job for me. It gave me a place where I felt powerful, calm, and needed. If everything around me looked beautiful and balanced, I could convince myself that nothing was going to fall apart.

Ares came years later, when I didn’t know I needed a man like him anywhere near my life.