CHAPTER 3: The Young CEO

Dominic's POV

The soft hum of classical music filled the grand ballroom, blending seamlessly with the murmur of voices and the clink of crystal glasses. I stood at the center of it all, tall and composed in my custom-tailored suit, a glass of red wine balanced in my hand. I could feel the weight of countless gazes on me—some curious, some admiring, and others outright shameless.

The company was hosting a banquet and a number of influential people had been invited. Of course, there'd be calculated introductions, networking and all.

This wasn't my scene. It never had been. Yet, as the youngest and most celebrated CEO in the city, I had no choice but to make appearances at events like this. Tonight, I was the centerpiece of the banquet, the name everyone wanted to drop in their conversations, the man everyone sought to impress.

"Mr. Blackwood, it's an honor to finally meet you," a middle-aged businessman said, almost gushed, extending his hand toward me. His eagerness radiated off him in waves, almost making me pity the man. Almost.

I took his hand briefly, offering a firm shake and a curt nod. "Thank you," I said, my voice level and professional.

He grinned, clearly hoping for more. "Your recent acquisition of Fermont Industries was nothing short of genius. You've set a standard that the rest of us can only hope to follow."

I allowed the faintest semblance of a smile to touch my lips—just enough to appear polite. "Thank you. The success was a result of the team's dedication," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. I had no patience for flattery tonight.

Not far from where I stood, a group of actresses huddled together, their hushed whispers and occasional giggles drawing my attention. They were staring at me—ogling, if I were to be honest. One of them, a tall blonde in a sequined gown, finally broke away from the group and approached me, her movements deliberate and calculated. She tried to appear confident and natural.

"Mr. Blackwood," she began, her voice dripping with sweetness, "I've heard so much about you. It's a pleasure to finally put a face to the name."

I caught the way her hand reached out, lightly brushing my forearm. She leaned in closer than necessary, her boldness irritating me more than amusing me.

"The pleasure is mine," I said, stepping back just enough to create a comfortable distance between us. My tone was polite but dismissive.

She faltered for a moment but quickly recovered, her smile widening. I excused myself before she could say anything else. I had no interest in entertaining flirtations, especially not the superficial kind. Events like these were a stage—a necessary evil where reputations were built and alliances forged.

Across the room, I caught sight of Eva—my adoptive sister watching me. Her jaw was tight, her irritation plain as day. Before I could make sense of her reaction, she began weaving her way through the crowd toward me.

"Dom," she said, her voice tinged with annoyance as she linked her arm with mine. Her grip was firm, her movements sharp. "What is with these harlots? It's so obvious you're uninterested in them."

I glanced down at her, keeping my expression blank. "It's part of the play, Eva. You don't have to concern yourself."

We all knew how such events usually played out. But Eva didn't let go of my arm. If anything, her hold tightened. There was something about her posture that was off, something protective and yet—disturbingly—possessive.

Over the past few months, her behavior had begun to unsettle me. She wasn't my biological sister, and though we had grown up together, her actions had started to blur boundaries that should never have been crossed.

Lately, she'd taken to wearing revealing nightgowns around the house, her movements deliberate when she thought I was watching. She'd linger in my room longer than necessary even when it was late, inventing excuses to be near me.

Sometimes, she'd brush her body against mine in ways that felt far from accidental.

Tonight was no exception. My gaze flickered briefly to her dress—a sleek black gown that was tasteful but more revealing than what she typically wore. It wasn't just the dress, though. It was the way she clung to my arm, the way she looked at me, the way she sought out my attention with an intensity that left me uneasy.

I pried her fingers off my arm gently but firmly, but when she refused to let go, I spoke. "Eva, don't make a scene," I said, my voice low and meant only for her ears.

"Make a scene?" she repeated, her tone carrying an edge of frustration. "By holding your arm?"

Before I could respond, she tugged at me sharply, her movement abrupt and careless. The glass of red wine in her hand tipped, spilling its contents onto my crisp white shirt.

I froze, my jaw tightening as I stared down at the stain. Around us, the chatter in our immediate vicinity quieted as a few guests turned their attention our way. They were suddenly so interested in knowing what was happening.

Sighing, I handed my glass of wine to a passing waiter and turned to Eva. "I need to clean up," I said simply, my tone cool and detached.

Before she could say anything, I brushed her hands off me and walked away, ignoring the burning sensation of her gaze on my back.

I stepped into my private suite, shutting the door behind me with a sigh. The tension of the evening clung to me like a second skin as I unbuttoned my ruined shirt.

The fabric peeled away easily, revealing the sticky remnants of the wine. I tossed it aside without a second glance and headed to the bathroom.

The hot water cascaded over me as I stepped into the shower, the steady stream washing away the stress of the evening. I closed my eyes, letting the heat soothe the knots in my muscles. My mind wandered briefly to the past few months—the relentless pace of my career, the constant scrutiny, and Eva's increasingly inappropriate behavior. It was all beginning to take its toll.

When I finally stepped out, I wrapped a towel around my waist, grabbed another to dry my hair, and moved toward the main room. A sharp, almost frantic knock at the door interrupted me.

Frowning at the urgency, I called out, "Come in," expecting my assistant.

The door creaked open, and instead of my assistant, a disheveled woman stumbled into the room.

I froze, my brows furrowing as I took in her appearance. Her clothes was wrinkled, her hair a chaotic mess, and her eyes glassy with the unmistakable haze of intoxication. She looked not only drunk but broken; streaks of dried tears were visible on her cheeks and her nose was almost red.