Page 141 of The Owner's Temptation

None of them knew the tables, the linens, the chairs had been saturated in, what I can only say is a rodent cat-nip.

The tiny beasts are in a frenzy. The guests have become part of the exhibit, the scentless chemical transferred to their ridiculous clothing. And the rats want it all.

Security tries to form lines—fails. Several rats climb the leg of a congressman mid-interview and the cameras catch him shrieking like a child, flailing in a frenzy.

A socialite jumps into the champagne tower, knocking it into a sea of broken glass and foam. Her bare feet bleed as she screams for help.

People run for the exits, trampling over one another, rats hanging from their gowns and tuxes gnawing at the fabrics. An older governor goes down, his security pulling him up by his collar as rats crawl over his shoulders.

But the doors are locked–for now. They’ll open in a moment but we need to give the press time to captureeverything.

Flashbulbs ignite like fireworks—shocking, freezing moments of high-societyhumiliation. Rats climbing Versace. Fear on the face of power. Blood on silk.

It’s chaos.

It’sart.

It’smine.

And as I stand on the other side of the ballroom door, watching from a monitor, listening to the symphony of my design, I smile.

Lorenzo’s face is frozen in disbelief. Pale. Rage simmering beneath the surface—but powerless.

Exactly how I planned it.

You wanted to embarrass me, old friend?

Nowyou’rethe scandal.

A man who can’t even control his own fundraiser. A man with dead vermin on his china and a rat climbing up his cufflinks.

Lorenzo wanted a war?

I’m giving him one. He just forgot the sewers I came from to get here. And I’m more than happy to remind him.

The chaos is deafening as I step through the ballroom doors—but none of it touches me.

The crowd is in disarray. Guests trip over gowns and scatter across the polished marble in a frantic attempt to escape the rats now swarming the venue.

Silver cutlery clatters to the floor.

Security yells over the noise, powerless to stop the sheer panic erupting in every direction. But through it all, I remain untouched.

The rats give me a wide berth, skittering around my feet without daring to cross my path. The repellent I sprayed earlier—silent, scentless to anyone human—does its job.

I move through the fray like a shadow wrapped in control, chaos peeling away in my wake.

No one sees me, not really. Not yet. But he does.

Lorenzo.

Across the room, he stands frozen amidst the carnage, his once-perfect appearance now marred by the panic unraveling around him. His jacket is wrinkled, collar askew.

One rat climbs onto the corner of his table and he swats at it violently, face twisted with disgust and confusion.

He sees me.

Our eyes lock.

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