Chapter 3 — Rival in the Spotlight

Isla Harrington

The chandelier above Isla glittered with a cold brilliance, its light refracting across the grand ballroom in fractured shards. The air was thick with opulence—polished smiles, the faint clinking of champagne glasses, and the low hum of a string quartet playing a piece that faded into the background like white noise. Isla loathed these events, their excess and artifice grating against her tightly wound sense of purpose. Yet, tonight, she had more than networking on her mind.

Rowan Blackwood was here.

Claire had mentioned it softly as they prepared to enter the gala, her voice tinged with unease. But Isla hadn’t needed the warning. She’d felt it—a strange, crawling awareness prickling at the edges of her composure. It wasn’t just the competition Rowan posed; it was something deeper, more instinctive, that unsettled her.

Standing at the heart of the room, Isla scanned the crowd with a practiced gaze, her sharp green eyes cutting through the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits. The room was a battlefield of whispers and alliances, but Isla had no interest in its usual power plays tonight. Her focus was on securing an alliance with Vincent Laurent, a key investor whose influence could counter Rowan’s latest maneuver—and possibly tip the balance of their ongoing rivalry.

“I don’t see him yet,” Claire murmured at her side, her cheer dimmed by the tension radiating from Isla.

“He’ll make an entrance,” Isla replied curtly, smoothing the front of her tailored black dress. Sleek and elegant, the dress was a statement of unassailable dominance, its structured lines mirroring the precision she demanded of herself. It was armor, as much for herself as for the room full of predators.

The ballroom’s excess felt almost suffocating: towering floral arrangements, champagne flutes glittering like tiny stars, and conversations laced with veiled calculations. Isla moved through it all like a queen surveying her court, her posture regal, her smile sharp. Each interaction was calculated, each step deliberate. She was here to remind everyone of her place at the top—especially Rowan.

Her eyes caught a flicker of movement near the bar. A figure leaned casually against the counter, his posture lazy but his presence magnetic.

Her chest tightened—a visceral, unwelcome reaction she immediately suppressed. Rowan Blackwood.

He was dressed in his infuriatingly effortless style—no tie, the first two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, and a leather bracelet peeking from beneath the cuff of his blazer. His wavy black hair was artfully tousled, as if he’d strolled in without a care, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the room with a mix of amusement and calculation. He exuded ease, a wolf in a room of sheep, and the sight of him sent a ripple of heat and irritation through her.

“I’ll handle this,” Isla muttered to Claire, her voice low but resolute. Claire hesitated, her freckled face clouded with concern, before nodding and melting into the crowd.

Isla strode toward Rowan, each click of her heels deliberate, a sharp counterpoint to the strings in the background. As she approached, his gaze locked onto hers, and the smirk that spread across his face was both maddening and magnetic.

“Well, if it isn’t the queen of the Glass Spire,” he drawled as she reached him. His voice was warm, honeyed, and laced with just enough irony to needle her. “I was starting to think you’d avoid me all night.”

“I don’t avoid nuisances, Blackwood,” she replied coolly, her tone as sharp as the edge of a blade. “I deal with them.”

His smirk widened, and he tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with something akin to admiration. “A pleasure as always, Harrington. You’re looking particularly sharp tonight. Is this all part of some grand conquest, or are you just declaring war in general?”

She ignored the compliment, though her pulse betrayed her, quickening despite her iron resolve. “You’ve crossed a line, Rowan. SolariTech was supposed to be mine.”

Rowan raised his glass—whiskey, neat—and took a slow, deliberate sip before replying. “Ah, business. Straight to the point, as always. But let’s not ruin this lovely evening with boardroom drama, shall we?”

Her jaw tightened. “Don’t play coy. You engineered that deal to undercut me.”

“And you’re surprised because…?” His tone was infuriatingly light, but his eyes glinted with sharp intent. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Come on, Isla. You know the game. You’re just upset because I played it better this time.”

Her nails dug into her palm as she fought to maintain her composure. The green of her eyes deepened, darkened—just for a moment, like a flash of light catching a shadow. “This isn’t over.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be,” he said smoothly, placing his glass down on the bar. His posture was relaxed, but there was an unmistakable edge to his gaze. “But let me give you a piece of advice. Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t about SolariTech. Maybe it’s about you.”

She froze, his words striking a nerve she hadn’t realized was exposed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rowan’s smirk softened into something more inscrutable, his tone dipping into something quieter, more intimate. “You’re rattled, Isla. And not just by me. There’s something under the surface, something you’re trying very hard to keep buried. It’s... fascinating.”

Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, the hum of the room faded, replaced by a memory she had buried deep: her mother’s face, pale in the moonlight, the emerald crescent on her finger glowing faintly as she disappeared into the woods. The phantom sensation of warmth against her palm—heat, like the ring—sent a shiver through her. Isla shoved the thought aside, forcing herself to stand taller, her voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t I?” His blue eyes seemed to pierce straight through her defenses, and for a fleeting second, she felt stripped bare in a way that left her unsettled.

She squared her shoulders, her voice sharpening like a blade. “Stay out of my way, Blackwood. I don’t have time for games.”

Rowan chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “Oh, Isla. Life’s a game. The real question is—what pieces are you willing to sacrifice?”

Before she could respond, someone called his name from across the room, and he straightened, giving her a lazy salute. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Harrington. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.”

And with that, he turned and sauntered off, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, her fists clenched at her sides.

The hum of the quartet clawed at her nerves. Isla exhaled slowly, forcing herself to smooth the tension from her shoulders. Whatever game Rowan thought he was playing, he would lose. He had no idea who he was dealing with.

But his words lingered, gnawing at the edges of her mind. Something under the surface.

Her hand brushed the cool metal of her champagne flute, the sensation grounding her. She had an alliance to secure and a rival to crush. Whatever else was stirring within her could wait.

For now.