The Astor Ballroom was a gilded cage, and Cornelia Davies was its most prized, and perhaps most restless, captive.
Hundreds of gas lamps glittered in the multifaceted crystals of the chandeliers, casting a brilliant, unforgiving light on New York’s high society.
The air, thick with the scent of hothouse flowers and expensive perfume, felt suffocating.
Every smile seemed a mask, every whisper a potential blade.
For Nell, who found her solace in the honest scent of sea salt and hot metal, this glittering spectacle was a necessary form of warfare, and she was woefully out of her element.
She had come tonight to project an image of unassailable strength.
After the crane incident and the subsequent, surprisingly nuanced, article by Ronan Kent, the whispers had changed.
They were no longer just about a ruthless businesswoman, but about a leader losing control.
She had to be seen, poised and untroubled, a bastion of stability. She held a flute of champagne she had no intention of drinking, its stem cold against her gloved fingers, a prop to occupy her hands.
Then she saw him.
Across the sprawling, polished dance floor, Ronan Kent stood near a marble column, looking as out of place as she felt.
He wasn’t in the rumpled suit of a harried journalist but in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that did little to soften the sharp, inquisitive lines of his face.
He wasn’t schmoozing or taking notes; he was simply observing, his gaze sweeping the room with a hunter’s patience.
And then, as if pulled by an invisible string, his eyes found hers.
For a long moment, the cacophony of the orchestra and the chatter of the crowd faded to a dull hum.
There was no shipyard between them now, no desk, no pretense of an interview.
There was only the vast, gleaming expanse of the ballroom floor and the undeniable current that crackled across it. He had seen the terror in her eyes when the crane fell.
He had seen her bleed, figuratively, for her men. And in his last article, he had, for the first time, shown a sliver of that truth. It was a change that both infuriated and intrigued her.
A calculated retreat, as her man Silas Croft had called it. But to what end?
With a resolve that startled her, he began moving toward her.
He didn’t weave through the crowd but moved with a directness that was his trademark, parting the sea of silk and broadcloth like a ship cutting through water.
Nell’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She could turn, retreat to the powder room, lose herself in a conversation with some dullard politician.
But she was Cornelia Davies.
She did not run. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and waited for the confrontation.
“Mrs. Davies,” he said, his voice a low counterpoint to the high-pitched gaiety around them. “I didn’t expect to find you so far from the scent of the sea.”
“And I didn’t expect to find you so far from the scent of ink and ambition, Mr. Kent,” she returned, her voice smooth as polished steel. “Or have you come seeking a new monster to slay among the city’s elite?”
A flicker of something—regret? frustration?—crossed his face before being replaced by a wry, challenging smile. “Perhaps I’ve come to realize the monsters aren’t always who they seem.”
He gestured toward the dance floor, where couples spun in a dizzying waltz. “They say a great deal of business is conducted at these affairs. I confess, I’m finding the currency of conversation rather… shallow.”
“That’s because the real transactions are silent,” Nell said, her eyes holding his. “A nod. A shared glance. A promise made in a handshake. It is a language of its own.”
“Then perhaps you could teach me,” he said, the challenge in his eyes deepening.
He extended a hand. “Mrs. Davies. May I have this dance?”
The audacity of it stole her breath.
He was her antagonist, the man who had publicly flayed her, and here he was, asking her to waltz as if they were old acquaintances.
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to cut him down with a single, icy phrase and walk away.
But as she looked at his outstretched hand, she saw not just a journalist, but the man who had stood beside her in the chaos, whose expression had mirrored her own horror. To refuse would be an admission of fear.
And she was not afraid.
“One dance, Mr. Kent,” she said, placing her gloved fingers in his. “Do try to keep up.”
His hand was warm and firm as it settled on the small of her back, guiding her onto the floor.
The contact was electric, a shock that traveled up her spine and settled low in her belly. Her own hand rested on his shoulder, and she could feel the hard muscle beneath the fine wool of his jacket.
The orchestra swelled, and he swept her into the rhythm of the waltz.
He was a surprisingly graceful dancer, leading her with an easy, confident strength that belied the tension crackling between them.
They moved as one, a seamless swirl of black and emerald green across the floor.
They were close, closer than they had ever been, and the carefully constructed walls between them began to crumble under the assault of proximity.
She could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with starch and something uniquely him. He could feel the rigid control in her posture, the subtle strength in the line of her back.
“You wrote that I was a ‘robber baroness,’” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the music, the words a test. “Do I feel like a thief in your arms?”
His grip tightened for a fraction of a second. “No,” he admitted, his voice rough. “You feel like a fortress. And I’m beginning to wonder what, precisely, you’re defending.”
“My life’s work. My people. Myself,” she answered, her gaze unwavering. “Things a man like you, who deals in words and shadows, might not understand.”
“I understand the truth,” he countered, his eyes searching hers. “And the truth of what happened at your shipyard… it’s more complicated than I was led to believe.”
In his eyes, she saw it again—that glimmer of doubt, the conflict that made him so much more dangerous than a simple villain.
He was a man wrestling with his own conscience, and that made him unpredictable.
For the length of the waltz, they were not tycoon and journalist. They were a man and a woman, caught in a gravitational pull neither understood nor knew how to resist.
Her body, so long held in check by sheer will, betrayed her, softening against his lead, her steps anticipating his.
She was acutely aware of the strength in his arms, and the treacherous thought that it might feel good to lean on it, just for a moment, was terrifying.
The vulnerability he inspired in her was a threat far greater than any broken crane.
The final, soaring notes of the waltz hung in the air, and they slowed to a stop, though he did not immediately release her.
They stood for a breathless moment in the center of the floor, the world spinning gently around them.
“Well, Mrs. Davies,” a smug, oily voice cut through the spell. “Enjoying the fruits of your labor?”
Nell stiffened, pulling back from Ronan as if burned. August Vanderbilt stood before them, a condescending smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, small and porcine, swept over Nell with a look of undisguised contempt before flicking dismissively to Ronan.
“Vanderbilt,” Nell said, her voice dropping ten degrees. “I’m surprised you have time for charity. I assumed you’d be busy counting your silver.”
Vanderbilt’s smirk tightened. “One must make time to witness the turning of the tides. You look… surprisingly composed, given the recent troubles at your yard. One might think you had a conscience, if one didn’t know better.”
His gaze was a physical blow, heavy with a personal animosity that went far beyond professional rivalry.
It was the look of a man who didn’t just want to win; he wanted to see her utterly destroyed.
Ronan stepped forward slightly, a protective gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible. “The only trouble I witnessed was a leader protecting her people, Mr. Vanderbilt.”
Vanderbilt barely glanced at him. “Ah, the scribbler. I’ve read your work. You have a talent for fiction. Do be careful whose fiction you choose to believe.”
He turned his full, venomous attention back to Nell. “Reputations, like ships, can be sunk by a single, well-placed hole, Mrs. Davies. And the waters of this city are deep and cold.”
It was a declaration of war. Not a business challenge, but a direct, personal threat.
Nell felt a chill colder than any winter wind.
She looked at Vanderbilt’s smug face and saw the source of her troubles as clearly as if he had confessed.
She gave him a smile that was all ice and sharp edges. “You forget, Mr. Vanderbilt, that my ships are made of iron. I suggest you learn to swim.”
Without another word, she turned her back on both men and walked away, her posture regal, her head held high.
But beneath the emerald silk of her gown, her heart was a cold, heavy stone.
She had danced with one devil only to be confronted by another, and she knew, with terrifying certainty, that the battle for her empire—and her soul—had just begun.