The Heiress Gambit-Chapter 22- The Met

PAIGE

The Bentley Continental GT’s engine growled, vibrating through the leather seats. I stared out the window, hyper-aware of Reomen beside me. The scent of his Creed Aventus cologne and clean skin filled the small space.

He took a sharp turn, his shoulder brushing my arm. I flinched away.

"Problem, Ms. Rimestone?" he asked, his voice a low purr.

"Just eager to get this over with," I snapped, my gaze fixed on the passing lights of Fifth Avenue.

He gave a dark chuckle. "Patience. The main event hasn’t even begun."

The car slid to a halt under the blinding lights of The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I shoved the door open before the valet could reach it, stumbling onto the red carpet in a rush of silk and panic.

Reomen emerged smoothly from the driver’s side, adjusting his Tom Ford cufflinks. He looked at my frantic exit, a supremely smug smirk on his face.

"Try to exit the vehicle with a little more grace next time," he drawled, offering me his arm. "You’re not fleeing a crime scene. You’re making an entrance."

I glared at him, my heart hammering. "I’d rather flee."

"I’m sure you would," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. He snagged my hand and tucked it firmly into the crook of his elbow, his grip unbreakable. "But you made a deal. Now, come along, barbarian. It’s time to play."

The second we stepped through the grand entrance of The Met, the world exploded in a barrage of light.

Camera flashes erupted like strobe lights, each one a tiny sun bleaching the scene. I instinctively flinched, the afterimages burning onto my retinas.

The roar of the crowd, the shouted questions from the press line, the soaring music—it all merged into a deafening hum.

And the people. My god, the people. The cavernous hall was a sea of wealth and ambition. It was a who’s who of every industry, a brutal display of power dressing.

I saw a tech CEO I’d once interviewed draped in Gucci, laughing with an actress in custom Schiaparelli. A hedge fund manager I knew from my father’s club held court in a razor-sharp Brioni tux.

Everyone was making a statement. Every gown, every watch, every carefully curated smile was a weapon in a silent war of status.

I saw faces I recognized from society pages and boardrooms, people I’d known my whole life who now looked through me as if I were a ghost. And others, strangers, whose eyes lingered a little too long, assessing the unknown woman on Reomen Daki’s arm.

My hand tightened on his arm, my knuckles white. This wasn’t a gala; it was a fucking gladiator arena.

Reomen leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. His voice was a calm, low murmur that cut through the cacophony.

"Breathe, Black Cat. They can smell fear." He didn’t look at me, his gaze sweeping the room with an expression of bored ownership. "Now, smile. They’re all watching. Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget."

He led me forward, into the glittering, judgmental heart of the jungle.

The main hall of The Met was a crush of silk, champagne flutes, and deafeningly loud ambition. I spotted Denki a few feet away, a silent, watchful statue in his Brioni suit.

And of course, there was Payton, holding court near a Jeff Koons sculpture, simpering at some B-list actor. I rolled my eyes so hard I saw stars.

Reomen’s hand on the small of my back was a brand, a constant, possessive pressure. It was suffocating. "I need a moment," I murmured, pulling away from his grip without looking back. "Ladies’ room."

I wove through the crowd, the heavy silk of my Valentino gown whispering around my legs. I was almost to the sanctuary of the hallway when a shrill voice cut through the din.

"Paige? Oh my god, Paige Rimestone!"

I closed my eyes for a brief second. For the love of God.

I turned to face Sasha Laurent, a social climber I’d known vaguely from my old life and who was now, predictably, one of Payton’s leeches. She was dressed head-to-toe in a gaudy sequined Dolce & Gabbana mini-dress.

"Sasha," I said, my voice flat. "How... loud you look."

She either didn’t hear the insult or chose to ignore it, air-kissing my cheeks. "I heard a rumor you were back! And working for Reomen Daki? How... unexpected."

Her eyes raked over my dress, a calculating gleam in them. "That’s a stunning Valentino. It must have cost a fortune. Your new job must pay surprisingly well."

The insinuation was as cheap as her perfume. I opened my mouth to deliver a cutting retort, but a sickly-sweet, horribly familiar voice sliced in before I could.

"It does, doesn’t it?" Payton materialized beside Sasha, a viper in pale pink Marchesa. She looped her arm through Sasha’s, a united front of spite. "We were just discussing it. It’s so brave of you, Paige, to start from the bottom like that. Though I guess some skills are just... transferable."

She gave a little laugh, and Sasha tittered along with her. My jaw tightened. I was trapped. Surrounded by piranhas in a sea of Patek Philippe and Piaget.

"Well, some of us prefer building our own empires instead of just being a decorative accessory on Daddy’s," I said, my smile all teeth.

Payton’s perfectly glossed smile didn’t slip, but her eyes turned to ice. "Speaking of accessories," she purred, her gaze flicking over my shoulder. "Yours is looking for you. He seems... impatient."

I followed her gaze. Reomen was indeed watching us from across the room, his expression unreadable but his posture radiating a cold intensity that even from this distance felt like a physical pull.

I turned back to the two of them, all false pretense gone. "If you’ll excuse me," I said, my voice cold. "My boss is waiting. Try not to spill anything on yourselves. It would be a tragedy to ruin such... interesting fashion choices."

I didn’t wait for a reply. I turned and walked away, leaving them sputtering, the weight of Reomen’s stare guiding me back through the crowd.

AUTHOR

Payton’s perfectly curated smile remained frozen on her face as Paige walked away, but beneath the surface, a tempest was brewing.

Her eyes, which had moments before been glittering with malicious amusement, were now locked on the reason for her sudden, silent fury.

Reomen Daki.

He stood across the room, a pillar of dark, imposing elegance in his Tom Ford tuxedo. He wasn’t just handsome; he was power personified. The way he commanded the space around him without even speaking, the cool, detached confidence in his gaze as he watched Paige return to him—it was intoxicating. And it was all directed at her sister. The disgraced one. The one who had nothing.

A hot, acidic wave of jealousy washed over Payton, so potent it stole her breath. She had never seen a man like this up close. The boys she knew were trust-fund babies, polished and predictable.

Reomen Daki was something else entirely—a self-made king in a realm she desperately wanted to be part of.

Her fingers tightened around her champagne flute, her knuckles turning white against the delicate crystal of the Baccarat glass. She could feel the eyes of her companion, Sasha, on her, sensing the shift in her mood.

But Payton didn’t care. Her jaw ticked, a tiny, almost imperceptible tell that betrayed the rage simmering beneath her pink Marchesa gown.

Paige didn’t deserve that. Paige, with her thrift-store morals and her defiant streak, didn’t deserve to be on the arm of a man who looked like he could buy and sell their father without breaking a sweat.

She wanted it. She wanted the power he radiated. She wanted the respect he commanded. She wanted the way he looked at a woman—not as decoration, but as a possession of immense value.

And the fact that Paige had it, and she didn’t, was an injustice that burned deeper than any insult.

Across the room, Reomen’s sharp gaze flickered away from Paige’s approaching form for just a second, landing on Payton. He saw the clenched jaw, the white-knuckled grip on the glass, the covetous glare she hadn’t quite managed to hide.

A faint, cold smirk touched his lips before vanishing. He recognized the look. It was the same look everyone in this room had—wanting something they couldn’t have.

He saw her not as a person, but as a variable. A predictable, petty variable driven by childish envy. Useful, perhaps, in its predictability. But ultimately, insignificant.

He turned his attention back to Paige, his gaze calculating. The pawn was in play. The other pieces were moving exactly as expected. The game, he thought with a surge of dark satisfaction, was progressing perfectly.

REOMEN

I watched her walk back toward me, a storm contained in black silk Valentino. The crowd seemed to part for her, not out of respect, but out of sheer self-preservation. The look on her face—that familiar mix of fury and defiance—was fucking exquisite.

She stopped in front of me, her chin tilted up, ready for a fight. Perfect.

"You can’t seem to stay away from trouble for five minutes, can you, Black Cat?" I drawled, letting the old nickname hang between us, smug and sarcastic. "Though I suppose that particular brand of trouble was necessary. A useful reminder of what you left behind. And what you’re fighting for."

Her eyes narrowed, a flash of pure fire in the museum’s soft light. She took a half-step closer, not backing down an inch.

"At least my trouble doesn’t come with a smug smirk and a god complex, Tanuki," she shot back, her voice a low, sharp blade meant only for my ears. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

A dark thrill shot through me. I loved it when she fought back. It made the inevitable victory so much sweeter. I was about to retort, to push her further, to see just how sharp her claws could get in this glittering cage.

But the game had a schedule to keep.

I let my smirk widen, enjoying the way her gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes. Got her.

"Cute," I purred. I leaned in, close enough that my next words were for her alone, our little world shrinking to just the two of us amidst the roar of the gala. "But save the wit for someone who’ll be impressed. We’re on."

I paused, watching the confusion flicker in her eyes, relishing the moment before the drop.

"Your father is here. We have business to discuss. And you’re coming with me."

I watched the blood drain from her face, her defiant posture freezing solid.

Now the real fun begins.