Chapter 4 Eyes That Burn

• The city shimmered under the dying rays of dusk, the skyline of Phoenix a jagged silhouette of glass and ambition. In the penthouse suite of Lancaster Tower, Steve Lancaster stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. Custom Armani. Polished black shoes. A tailored tux that whispered wealth and dominance.
• But despite the sharp perfection, something in his expression betrayed distraction. His gaze kept flicking to his phone.
• No new messages.
• She hadn’t confirmed.
• For all his power and ruthlessness, waiting on a woman—that woman—was a kind of torture he wasn’t used to.
• He picked up the phone again.
• Just then, a soft knock echoed through the apartment.
• Steve opened the door, and the air shifted.
• Sandra stood there, radiant in a black satin gown that clung to every curve. The neckline plunged dangerously low, balanced by the high slit running up her thigh. Her dark curls were swept to one side, lips painted a deep red that could wreck nations. And her eyes—sharp, watchful, burning.
• Steve’s throat went dry.
• “You clean up,” she said smoothly, “almost as well as I do.”
• “‘Almost’ is generous,” he murmured, eyes never leaving hers.
• He stepped aside and gestured to the waiting elevator. “Your chariot awaits.”
• The Lancaster Foundation Gala was the social event of the season. Politicians, celebrities, media moguls they all gathered under crystal chandeliers and million-dollar smiles. The theme was “Legacy Through Innovation,” but the only legacy most attendees cared about was their own net worth.
• Steve and Sandra entered to a wave of flashing cameras.
• For the first time, Sandra wasn’t just the driver or the staff. She was with him. Not behind. Beside.
• And people noticed.
• Heads turned. Whispered questions flared.
• “Is that the new PR director?”
• “No, I heard she’s his driver.”
• “She’s gorgeous. Where’s Claudia tonight?”
• Steve didn’t care. He watched Sandra command the room with the same grace she used behind the wheel. Confident, composed, and utterly unshaken.
• The orchestra played low jazz. Waiters passed by with champagne flutes. And the world felt like it was holding its breath.
• “Who’s your date?” asked Claire Rinaldi, an old flame of Steve’s, now a rising star in biotech investment.
• Sandra stepped away to speak with the CEO of a women’s startup incubator, and Claire pounced.
• “She’s not exactly your type,” Claire said, sipping champagne.
• Steve’s smile was razor-thin. “That’s the point.”
• “Rumor is she used to be your father’s driver.”
• “Another point.”
• Claire arched a brow. “So this is your rebellion phase?”
• “No,” he said, gaze fixed on Sandra. “This is clarity.”
• Across the room, Sandra could feel the weight of it all the attention, the whispers, the underestimation. But she’d been underestimated before. And now she had a dress, heels, and a voice that refused to shrink.
• The CEO she spoke with an elegant Black woman named Deidra leaned in. “Isn’t that Lancaster staring at you like he’s about to devour you?”
• Sandra didn’t flinch. “He tends to look at people like that.”
• “But does he see them?”
• Sandra’s smile was private. “I think that’s what scares him most.”
• As the charity auction kicked off, Steve found Sandra again, guiding her to a private balcony. The air outside was cooler, quieter. Far from the noise, the masks, the performance.
• “You surprised me tonight,” he said, watching the way the moonlight curved along her collarbone.
• “You assumed I’d be your date or your shadow,” she replied. “I chose neither.”
• He stepped closer. “And what do you choose now?”
• “To remind you that you’re not the only one who commands a room.”
• Steve’s smile faded. Something more serious passed between them—heat, yes, but also challenge. Recognition.
• He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re dangerous, Sandra Vega.”
• “I’ve been warned.”
• His hand lingered. “And still you walked into the lion’s den.”
• “I’ve faced worse.”
• Steve leaned in, lips inches from hers. “Then tell me to stop.”
• Her breath hitched. But she didn’t pull back.
• “I won’t,” she whispered.
• The kiss wasn’t sweet.
• It was fire.
• A raw collision of pent-up desire, of unspoken thoughts and buried temptations. His hands found her waist. Hers slid into his hair. Time broke apart.
• When they finally parted, the silence buzzed with unfinished sentences.
• Steve exhaled. “You make it very hard to play by the rules.”
• Sandra met his gaze. “Then break them.”
• They returned to the gala just in time for the closing remarks. Steve gave a short speech measured, flawless, cold. But his eyes kept finding her in the crowd.
• And when it ended, when the applause faded and the spotlight dimmed, he whispered in her ear.
• “Come home with me.”
• Sandra’s heart pounded. Not with fear.
• With choice.
• She paused.
• Then answered.
• “Yes.”
• That night, in the quiet, marble and steel world of his penthouse, they crossed a line.
• Not just of lust.
• Of truth.
• Of risk.
• Of something too fragile to name, and too powerful to ignore.