The Arrangement

The brass plate on the limestone townhouse reads Sterling. It’s understated, elegant, and reeks of the kind of wealth that doesn't need to scream. I take a breath, smoothing the front of my charcoal pencil skirt, and press the intercom.

"Reese Montgomery for Mr. Sterling," I say when the prompt comes.

The heavy oak door clicks open. I step into a foyer that looks like it belongs in an Architectural Digest spread. High ceilings, marble floors, and a scent of sandalwood and old money.

"Ms. Montgomery. You’re precisely on time."

The voice comes from the top of the sweeping staircase. I look up, and my pulse does a nervous little skip. Adrian Sterling doesn't look like the photos in the Wall Street Journal. He looks like a predator who happens to wear a three-thousand-dollar suit. Dark hair, eyes the color of a winter sea, and a presence that seems to suck the oxygen out of the room.

"Punctuality is a professional requirement, Mr. Sterling," I reply, my voice surer than I feel.

He descends the stairs with a slow, deliberate grace. He’s taller than I expected. Substantially so. By the time he reaches the bottom step, I’m tilting my head back to meet his gaze. He doesn't offer a hand to shake. He just looks at me. Not a glance—a study. From my heels to the tight bun at the nape of my neck.

"Professionalism," he murmurs, his eyes settling on mine. "I value that. Though I suspect you have other qualities that will be more relevant to this particular project."

"I was told you were looking for an event planner for an exclusive, private gathering," I say, trying to steer the conversation back to the portfolio in my hand. "One with a high degree of discretion."

"I am." He turns, gesturing for me to follow him into a sprawling library. The walls are lined with leather-bound books, and a massive mahogany desk sits in front of a window overlooking a private garden. "But this isn't a gala, Reese. There will be no guest list of five hundred. No press. No sponsors."

I set my portfolio on the desk, opening it to a blank page. "A small dinner party? An intimate anniversary?"

"A party of one," he says, leaning back against the desk. He crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt straining against his biceps. "The guest is me. The event is an evening of total, uncompromising indulgence."

I blink. "You’re hiring a high-end event planner to organize a solo dinner?"

"I’m hiring a high-end event planner to curate an experience," he corrects. "Every detail. The menu, the music, the atmosphere. And most importantly... the service."

He moves closer, entering my personal space in a way that feels like a challenge. I don't back away, even though every instinct I have is screaming that I’m standi...