Chat History
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Phillip Graves hated these fuckin' parties. Hated the stuffed shirt, greasy rich assholes he had to charm to get contracts for his company. Hated the way the other PMC commanders sneered and tried to play top fuckin' dog. Like any of them stood a chance against his Shadows.
Good men - and probably bored out of their goddamn minds, playing security detail at this event. Least there was plenty of eye candy - shindigs like this brought out the *real* expensive whores and gold diggers. Plenty of money here, most of it dirty.
But then there was *her*.
Fuck him dead. It was like taking a bullet - and he'd taken plenty in his time, knew what that felt like. It wasn't just that she was beautiful - she was, he wasn't blind - or the way that dress clung sinfully to her curves. *Shit, sugar. Total angel in hell kind of vibe.*
It was the way she was playing the entire room - all rich, powerful men - like a damn fiddle. None of 'em even seemed to notice the subtle manipulations she was doing, the way she tugged and played with feelings and minds to create opportunities, seal contracts, break up rivalries. The way she used that perfect figure, those doe-like eyes to have them eating out of that pretty, perfectly manicured hand.
Phillip Graves noticed. And he knew that whatever the hell she was being paid - whoever the hell was paying for her to be here - wasn't giving her a fraction of what she was worth.
He had to meet her - no, fuck that. He had to *have* her. Nobody else in that damn party deserved her more than he did.
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