The bass still throbbed faintly through the air behind him, a muted heartbeat that refused to die even out here in the cold. He had told himself one more song, just one, and yet he had remained, rooted not by indecision but by something rarer, something dangerously close to contentment. It was easier, he found, to stand apart and let the city perform for him than to wade back into the warm, reckless press of bodies already softened by excess. He should have begun the mingling earlier, before the champagne had blurred edges and sharpened egos, but the thought of stepping into conversations glazed in overconfidence felt suddenly tedious. He exhaled a quiet snort into his drink at the idea that he was becoming lazy, perhaps, and Jonah’s eyebrow lifted in peripheral inquiry before settling again.
Then the air shifted as someone slid closer to him.
He felt it before he fully registered her presence, the shift in proximity, the subtle displacement of air. His gaze turned, slow and deliberate, and whatever idle musings had occupied him dissolved cleanly at the sight of her. She was composed without being stiff, luminous without trying to be, the kind of woman whose beauty didn’t shout but insisted. Soft green eyes, framed by long lashes and warm, precise makeup, studied the skyline as if it had personally requested her attention, her hair fell sleek and straight, honeyed brown with lighter ribbons catching the city’s glow. Even the shape of her hands, long fingers tipped in dark lacquered nails, felt intentional, sculptural, as they rested against the cold metal railing.
“The new,” he answered smoothly, not missing the rhythm of her question, the smile arriving on his face as if it had always been waiting there. His voice warmed a fraction, enough to suggest invitation rather than deflection. It took only a heartbeat longer for recognition to click into place, late nights passing Rebecca’s open laptop, the faint soundtrack of some prestige reality TV drama she’d insisted was ‘character-driven.’ He had never paid it proper attention, but he remembered her face on the screen; softer lighting, heightened stakes, and a warm presence. He’d had to indulgently listen to more than one rant from Rebecca about how much this particular woman had changed since the show. “Though,” he added lightly, tilting his head, “I like to believe some would argue the old is vastly underrated.”
He shifted his glass into his left hand and extended his right, palm open in polite offering, posture relaxed but attentive now, entirely hers. “Charles Aponte,” he said, as though the name required no elaboration. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?” His gaze held steady, curious rather than demanding, the faintest suggestion of challenge hidden beneath the charm. Behind them, the music swelled again, and for the first time that evening, he found himself almost grateful he had stayed for one more song.
"Scarlett" She answered, taking his hand when he offered it, her grip polite and practiced. "Scarlett Wren."
His skin was warm despite the cold, grasp steady in a way that felt grounding. Scarlett didn’t rush to let go, but didn’t linger either, releasing his hand and reclaiming purchase on the railing with her manicured fingers. Her gaze remained on him though, a beat longer than was strictly police - long enough to take inventory, not long enough to be accused of staring. He was all quiet precision. Tall, with the kind of presence that didn’t crowd a space so much as claim it by standing still. But his eyes were the most dangerous part: pale, intent, amused in a way that suggested he was always three steps ahead and perfectly content to let others think they were leading. Which made sense, considering his name wasn’t unfamiliar to her in the slightest, his reputation preceding him.
“Underrated?” The brunette echoed, a hint of amusement in her voice. Her eyes flicked to the man standing a few steps behind Charles who was too still, too alert to be another party-goer. “That’s certainly generous, considering most people are pretty eager to move on,” She tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting as she looked back at him.
“Though I suppose,” She continued, “I guess it depends on whether you’re talking about memories or mistakes.” Scarlett gestured faintly toward the skyline, the city humming below them. “Most people are pretending midnight will fix their problems and give them a clean slate.”
“Me?” She lifted her glass and tilted it toward him, a confident glimmer in her smile. “I had a good year, actually. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Scarlett Wren. The name settled into place with satisfying clarity, the last fragment of recognition clicking neatly into the machinery of his memory. Charles hummed softly beneath her reply, the sound thoughtful rather than dismissive, as though he were tasting the cadence of her voice as carefully as he did his drink. “People are only eager to move on if they have regrets,” he said at last, the words smooth and unhurried, shaped by quiet amusement. He lifted his drink to his lips and took a measured sip, allowing the whiskey to unfold properly, warm and steady, sweetness curling at the edges, the faint, aromatic bitterness of citrus rising just behind it. “I wouldn’t know from personal experience,” he added, a subtle smirk touching the corner of his mouth. “I have no regrets either.”
He rolled the glass gently between his fingers, watching the ice shift and settle as if it even understood the value of patience. “Nor do I have any problems that require midnight to fix them,” he continued, the faintest edge of irony threading through his tone. “It’s been quite a good year for me, aswell.” That much, at least, was true. His gaze drifted briefly across the terrace, scanning without appearing to do so, identifying familiar silhouettes the way one identifies landmarks on a well-worn map. There he saw Josie Tatl, already leaning too eagerly into someone else’s conversation, her posture coiled like a vulture waiting for a tremor. His lip threatened the smallest curl before he mastered it, God forbid she caught his eye and mistook neutrality for invitation.
He turned back to Scarlett with deliberate ease, as though no other presence had ever existed in his periphery. It was a relief, almost indulgent, to return his attention to something aesthetically pleasing rather than strategically irritating. The city lights caught in her eyes when she moved, and he found himself studying the way her confidence held, not loud, not desperate, simply assured. He angled his body toward her fully now, an unspoken signal that for the moment, she possessed his interest without competition. “How are you enjoying the party so far, Miss Wren?” he asked, the question polite but weighted with curiosity, his tone warm enough to invite honesty.
The bass swelled faintly through the crowd, cheers echoing as one song ended and another began, a reminder that chaos and opportunity waited only steps away. For now, however, Charles allowed himself to remain suspended in this quieter orbit, cold air, city glow, whiskey warmth, and a woman who seemed more interested in conversation than spectacle. It was rare enough to be worth exploring, for the moment at least.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of the brunette’s lips, sharp but effortless.
"Please, call me Scarlett," Insisting, eyes glinting with just enough mischief, "Ms. Wren is my mother." She leaned a fraction closer, letting the city glow wash over her features, and she studied him in return; how he stood just far enough from the crowd to remain unclaimed, the subtle tension in his shoulders that suggested vigilance, yet not discomfort.
“I’m enjoying it,” Her voice was smooth, controlled. “But parties like this are less about the champagne and more about the choreography. Who’s performing for who, who’s pretending to care,” She let a beat pass, her words hanging in the air between them. A breeze rustled her hair and she let it, unbothered.
“I don’t mind the performance though - it's easy after a while. You just follow the rhythm, smile when you’re supposed to, look effortlessly interested.” Scarlett playfully remarked while taking a sip of her drink, the bubbles of the champagne cleansing her palate. She let the warmth settle in her chest, eyes still tracing the careful angles of his posture and the line of his jaw.
"Not exactly the usual crowd for you, is it?" She asked, her tone casual but threaded with intrigue.
The smirk that touched her mouth earned one in return, slower, more deliberate. “Scarlett,” he repeated, inclining his head as though sealing a quiet agreement between them. The correction pleased him, not because of the familiarity it implied, but because of the confidence it required. He leaned in a fraction as well, not enough to invade, just enough to study; in the dim spill of city light she became something almost curated, cheekbones catching the glow, lashes casting faint shadows against porcelain skin. For a moment he regarded her the way he might regard a rare piece at auction, careful, appraising, attentive to detail without ever appearing greedy.
Her observations amused him more than he let on. This, he thought, was the rare kind of exchange that made these events tolerable. Language sharpened into something playful, meaning layered beneath tone. A verbal game of chess disguised as idle flirtation. “Not at all,” he agreed lightly, dragging his gaze from her to the crowd beyond the railing, where sequins flashed and bodies collided in ecstatic disarray. His lips tipped downward just slightly, not enough to insult, just enough to reveal preference. “Much too loud, if I’m being honest. I prefer banquets, auctions, board meetings, and charities. Anything with a more… tame crowd.”
He lifted the glass again, letting the whiskey roll slowly across his tongue, savoring the burn as it settled into warmth at the back of his throat. “Those sorts of events have their own choreography,” he continued, eyes returning to her with a flicker of private amusement. “Just quieter. You can only be so charming before it crosses into condescension, or so I’m told.” One shoulder rose and fell in a mild, almost dismissive shrug, as though the opinions of others were curiosities rather than concerns, or perhaps it was not an issue he had personally. Behind them, laughter spiked and dissolved again into bass, the skyline flickering in indifferent approval.
His gaze lingered on her now, not hungry, not hurried, simply curious in a way he seldom allowed. “You’re right about the rhythm,” he said, voice softening a shade. “Most people follow it without realizing they’re being led.” A faint tilt of his head, almost thoughtful. “You, however, seem to know exactly when to smile and when to let the silence do the work.” The compliment landed gently, balanced on the edge of observation rather than pursuit. “It’s a skill,” he added, casual, precise. “And you wear it well.”
Scarlett let the compliment settle, not rushing to fill the space it created. Silence, after all, was something she wielded deliberately. And he clearly noticed.
“It’s less a skill and more an instinct,” She replied lightly, her expression - and her eyes - doing the work of acknowledgment without needing words of gratitude. “You spend enough time in rooms like this, you learn when to lean in and when to let everyone else exhaust themselves.”
Out of the corner of her eye, the brunette saw a head of blonde hair approach - then falter mid-step as recognition set in. Lily slowed, visibly recalibrating, her gaze flicking from her friend to the man beside her and back again. She hovered for a beat longer, clearly reassessing, then offered her friend a small, knowing look before veering off again, melting back into the crowd as if she’d never intended to interrupt.
The faint curve of Scarlett’s mouth followed - satisfaction more than amusement. Lily knew better than to interrupt a moment she had clearly claimed. That unspoken understanding, the innate ability to reach each other's body language, was part of why their friendship worked.
“You don’t strike me as someone who wastes energy,” She evaluated, her voice dropping just enough to feel private. “Which tells me you’re at this party because you want to be, not because you have to be.” She shifted subtly closer to the railing, a deliberate tilt toward him that invited his attention without crowding him.
“So, Charles,” Scarlett continued, her tone teasingly casual, eyes catching his with a glint of curiosity, “What was it that brought you here tonight?”
Charles watched the small choreography between Scarlett and her retreating friend with quiet appreciation, noting the recalibration, the deference, the subtle satisfaction that followed. It told him more about Scarlett than any introduction could have. When she spoke again, lowering her voice just enough to narrow the world between them, he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You’re right,” he said evenly. “Wasted energy is simply inefficient allocation.” A faint pause, almost reflective. “My father used to say that excess, of effort, of emotion, of resources, wasn’t indulgence. It was simply poor strategy.” He let that linger, as though the philosophy had been earned rather than inherited.
He shifted his weight, leaning one forearm against the railing now, allowing the city’s cold breath to thread through the space between them. The skyline glittered like circuitry below, the grid pulsing in disciplined light. He lifted his glass again, taking a slow sip, letting the whiskey bloom warm against the chill in the air. “This,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the music, the people, the thrum of curated excess behind them, “Is less about desire and more about timing.” His hand lowered with casual dismissal, as though the explanation itself bored him. “I’m planning to open a LUCENT branch here. New York is overdue for it.”
He let his gaze sweep across the terrace again, already imagining headlines assembling themselves in invisible ink. “My assistant felt it would be… prudent for certain faces to see mine in proximity to certain other faces,” he added, almost amused. “Let the media speculate. Let the bloggers invent. It builds anticipation.” Another measured sip, the ice shifting softly in his glass. “All of it leads to a far louder public moment when the official announcement drops. People are far more invested when they believe they’ve discovered something before it’s been handed to them.”
He turned back to her then, expression smoothing into something almost intimate in its composure. “So yes,” he concluded lightly, “An obligation of sorts.” The faintest curl of a smile returned. “Though I admit, obligations are far more tolerable when the company isn’t quite so dreadful.” The bass swelled again behind them, but he remained steady, the city lights reflecting faintly in his eyes as though he already owned half of them.
“That’s certainly one way to make an entrance,” Scarlett replied, turning his explanation over with quiet consideration, “Let them talk about you before you ever say a word.” There was no judgment in it. If anything, there was recognition. She knew the value of letting a narrative breathe before stepping into it - how anticipation did half the work for you if you let it.
“Still,” she added, her tone soft but assured, not bothering to ask permission to say the thought that was already forming, “I find it interesting then that you chose the outskirts instead of the spotlight.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the glass doors, where laughter and music spilled out in waves, then returned to him. “If visibility were the priority, you could’ve made your appearance and vanished well before midnight.”
She let the silence stretch, studying him without pretense, then tilted her head slightly. She suspected most people took him at face value, never pausing to wonder what lay beneath. But Scarlett was smarter than she looked, more perceptive than most assumed. Maybe it was the champagne, maybe the quiet thrill of standing on the edge of something new - but she leaned into it instead of away.
“Which makes me think,” Scarlett continued, “You like to see how the board is set before you choose where to play.” A faint smile curved at her lips, subtle but intentional. “The kind of person who watches first - then decides whether the move is worth making.”
A quiet laugh left him, low, almost private, before he lifted the glass again. He let the whiskey rest briefly against his tongue, the citrus oil and smoke folding into warmth as he considered her assessment with the same patience he applied to contracts and people alike. His eyes did not leave her as he swallowed. “You’re very perceptive, Scarlett,” he said at last, unhurried, her name rolling from his mouth as though he had tested its weight first. The faint smirk that followed was not dismissal but approval. Perhaps this evening was not shaping to be as mundane as he had feared.
He shifted slightly, angling his shoulder toward her while his gaze drifted momentarily to the city below, lights threading through darkness like coded intention. “I’ve found that observing costs very little,” he continued smoothly. “Reaction, on the other hand, can be… expensive.” His attention returned to her with sharpened focus. “But you’re right. I prefer to see how the pieces settle before deciding whether the game is worth entering.” A small pause, deliberate enough to signal he was not finished. “Though I suspect you only recognize that particular instinct because it mirrors your own.”
He let that sit between them, neither pressing nor retracting it. Their conversation felt insulated from the frenzy of the party, peaceful in the face of the approaching New Year. “It takes a certain patience,” he added lightly, “To stand at the edge of a room and resist the urge to be consumed by it.” His gaze lingered on her expression, measuring not her beauty, though that required little effort, but the calculation behind it. This was not champagne bravado. This was intent.
His head tipped slightly, curiosity sharpening into something more pointed. “Which makes me wonder,” he said, voice lowering just enough to narrow the space between them, “What compelled you to approach me?” He rotated the glass idly in his hand, amber light flickering across his fingers. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t make casual moves. So I’m inclined to believe there was something about the board that caught your interest.” His eyes held hers, steady and unblinking, the faintest trace of amusement threading beneath the question.
Scarlett didn’t answer right away. She took her time, lifting her flute and letting her champagne brush her lips first, gaze never leaving his. She shifted her weight against the railing, close enough now that the space between them felt intentional rather than accidental. After a beat, she exhaled softly, as if deciding there was no reason to overstate the truth.
“It’s not complicated, actually,” She finally replied, her tone easy, assured. ”I saw a well dressed man who chose solitude purposefully rather than it choosing him.”
“And,” The brunette added, amusement threading through her voice, her eyes glinting with something that felt unmistakably like the thrill of the chase, “I’ve always had a soft spot for things that aren’t handed to me easily.”
Charles listened without interruption, the faint hum of the party fading into something distant and inconsequential. He did not look away when she spoke, he rarely did when something interested him. The admission was simple, almost disarmingly so, and that more than anything thus far amused him. He let the silence breathe for a moment after her final remark, allowing the weight of it to settle properly between them. Then, slowly, he leaned in, not enough to crowd her, just enough to acknowledge that proximity had become intentional.
“A soft spot for difficulty,” he repeated, the words rolling thoughtfully across his tongue. The corner of his mouth curved, not arrogant, but aware. “You’d be surprised how many people mistake persistence for strategy.” He tipped the last of his Old Fashioned back, letting the final swallow burn warm and slow before lowering the empty glass to the railing beside him. “There have been many attempts,” he added lightly, gaze steady on hers. “Most of them enthusiastic. Very few… deliberate.”
His expression shifted then, subtle, but perceptible, a flicker of genuine interest threading through the composure. “Intelligence is rarer than confidence,” he continued, voice low. “And considerably more attractive.” He allowed that to sit without embellishment, without flourish. The breeze tugged faintly at the fabric of his suit, carrying the distant scent of smoke and winter air between them.
He straightened slightly, though he did not step away. “Difficulty,” he said, almost thoughtfully, “Is only appealing when it’s worth the investment, to me at least.” His eyes held hers for a beat longer than politeness required. “So I suppose the question becomes whether you enjoy the challenge… or the outcome.” As it stood, he could see himself enjoying both.
Game, set, match. The thought hit her with a quiet certainty, the kind that made the tension in her shoulders ease, feeling the shift almost instantly.
“The outcome has never really been the point for me,” A faint, knowing smile touched Scarlett’s lips, sparkling white teeth framed with mauve. “If something is able to hold my attention, that alone is enough. Whatever comes after… that’s just a bonus.”
The brunette finished the last of her champagne deliberately, tilting the flute just so and letting it empty before discarding it on the railing next to his glass.
“Looks like I need a refill,” She observed, turning and creating distance between them as if the matter were settled. She took a few steps toward the bar, the cold air brushing her bare shoulders, heels clicking softly against the terrace floor.
A beat later, she glanced back over her shoulder, brow arched, the slightest smirk tugging the corner of her mouth.
“You coming?”
Her answer pleased him more than it should have. The smirk that followed was small but genuine, and beneath it something quieter unfurled, an interest not born of conquest, but of curiosity. It was rare that someone held his attention without trying to seize it. Rarer still that they did so without overreaching. He inclined his head in agreement, allowing the moment to feel unhurried, earned. “I could use a refill as well,” he replied smoothly, stepping forward with her as though the decision had always been mutual.
His hand found the small of her back with easy confidence, firm but not possessive, guiding rather than claiming. The warmth of her met the cool press of his palm as they moved through the crowd, and bodies shifted instinctively to make room, some recognizing him, others responding simply to the quiet authority in his stride. The music swelled again as they traveled away from the edges of the party, bass vibrating faintly through the floor beneath polished shoes and reckless heels. For a fleeting second, he considered how effortless it felt to direct motion without raising his voice. Perhaps this night had more to offer than he’d assumed.
They were nearly to the bar when the interruption arrived, bright, nasal, and unmistakable. “Charles Aponte? I didn’t expect to see you here. Do you have a moment to chat?” He closed his eyes briefly, a silent appeal to whatever force governed patience, before turning halfway toward the voice. “Josie Tatl,” he said evenly. “Tatl-Tales. A pleasure.” The sarcasm was thinly veiled, but Josie either failed to register it or found it irrelevant. “My reputation precedes me, it would seem,” she chirped, her gaze flicking to Scarlett in swift appraisal before locking back onto him.
“Unfortunately,” he replied blandly, his expression flattening into something politely immovable. His eyes shifted just enough to catch Jonah in the periphery, assessing whether intervention would be required. “Funny, I was given the guest list before I agreed to attend and your name wasn’t on it.” he continued coolly. “As fascinating as that mystery would be, I’m afraid I’m not available for interviews this evening. Those are scheduled through my assistant.” The dismissal should have been sufficient. It rarely was with people like her.
Josie brightened instead of retreating, already fumbling in her clutch for the small recorder she favored like a weapon disguised as novelty. A soft click punctured the music as she pressed record, red light blinking eagerly in the dimness. “It’ll really just be a quick few questions,” she insisted, leaning forward slightly, voice pitched just above the bass. “For the record, are you confirming LUCENT’s New York expansion? And is it true you’ve acquired three properties in Manhattan under shell LLCs this quarter?” Her smile gleamed, sharp and hungry.
Charles did not sigh this time. He simply watched her, composure settling over him like armor. Scarlett’s presence at his side remained warm and steady, but his attention narrowed, sharpened. “Speculation is the lifeblood of journalism,” he said calmly, voice smooth enough to be replayed later without friction. “But LUCENT doesn’t operate on rumors. When there’s something worth announcing, you’ll hear it from us directly.” His gaze held hers a beat too long, polite, measured, final.
Scarlett recognized the tone before she even fully turned - bright, invasive, opportunistic.
Of course.
Of course Josie had pivoted. When one door didn’t open, she simply tried the next.
Scarlett stepped forward smoothly, positioning herself just slightly between them - not possessive, just present. Her smile was immaculate, and the look she gave her said she remembered her perfectly well.
“Josie,” she said pleasantly, as though this were a coincidence rather than a repeat performance. “Aren’t you making the rounds tonight.” Her eyes dipped pointedly to the blinking recorder in Josie’s hand, then lifted again.
“Charles already mentioned he’s not available for an interview,” She continued, tone light but unmistakably firm. “And I can personally assure you that ambushing him between drinks won’t change that.”
A faint, sweet tilt of her lips, just enough to sting.
“But don’t let us hold you back,” Scarlett added, “I’m sure there’s an aspiring headline somewhere in this room.” The brunette let the pause hang, cool and unhurried. “Hopefully you find someone who still thinks being recorded is an achievement.”
Then, just as effortlessly, she turned back to Charles, expression softening as if the interruption had barely registered, resting a hand lightly on his arm.
“Now,” She pivoted, “About that refill.”
Dismissed. Cleanly.
Charles did not interrupt. He rarely did when something worth observing unfolded in front of him, and Scarlett’s intervention proved to be precisely that. He watched her step forward with the sort of composure that suggested instinct rather than effort, her voice smooth but edged just enough to draw blood. The small smirk tugging at his mouth deepened with every measured word she delivered. Josie’s bright confidence dimmed fraction by fraction, not defeated but unmistakably stalled, and Charles found the exchange far more entertaining than the drink he’d just finished. It was, he thought privately, a far more elegant solution than the one Jonah had been considering.
When Scarlett turned back to him, the moment closed as neatly as it had opened. Her hand settled lightly on his arm, her expression softening as though the interruption had barely existed. The ease of it coaxed a low chuckle from him, quiet but genuine, the sound carrying just enough warmth to be felt rather than heard. “Anything for you, darling,” he murmured, allowing the endearment to fall naturally as he stepped forward again. His hand returned to the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd with the same quiet authority as before, bodies parting around them with instinctive compliance.
Behind them, Jonah moved with the subtlety of a freight train disguised in tailored clothing. As he passed Josie, his shoulder clipped hers hard enough to jolt the small recorder in her grip, the device wobbling dangerously before she scrambled to secure it. The moment was brief, almost accidental in appearance, but Charles caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in Jonah’s otherwise neutral expression as he rejoined them. Charles did not look back. The music surged again as they neared the bar, light spilling across glass and polished metal, and he allowed himself the rare indulgence of amusement lingering at the edges of the night.
3x Thank
