Chapter 8: The Gala
The dress was a weapon, and Rio felt its chill the moment she slid it on. The fabric was a whisper of obsidian lace and sheer silk georgette, so fine it felt like shadow against her skin. It clung to every dip and curve, the bodice a precarious scaffold that held her breasts without truly covering them. The nipples, hardened by the air conditioning in her apartment and a thrum of anxious anticipation, were clearly visible as dark roses beneath the web of lace. The back plunged to the base of her spine. There were no straps, no lining. It was, as Agatha’s note pinned to the bag had succinctly stated, to be worn as is. No underwear. No compromises.
The reflection in her full-length mirror was a stranger—a licentious phantom dressed for a different kind of auction. A flush of defiance warmed her. If this was her uniform, she’d wear it like armor.
The sleek black town car deposited her under the hotel’s awning. Heads turned; the valet’s gaze stuck to her chest a second too long. She walked through the opulent lobby as if she owned it, the slit in the dress revealing a flash of thigh with every step.
The ballroom was a cathedral of wealth. Chandeliers dripped light onto a sea of black ties and jewel-toned gowns. The murmur of money and influence was a constant hum. Rio spotted Agatha immediately. She was a pillar of severe emerald silk, standing with a group of older men near a grand piano. Her laugh, sharp and melodic, cut through the ambient noise. She looked regal, untouchable.
Then her eyes found Rio.
The trajectory of that gaze was a physical touch. It traveled from the entrance, down the length of the room, and over Rio’s body with the slow, comprehensive assessment of a sculptor eyeing a block of marble. Agatha’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture did—a subtle tightening, a predator noting the arrival of its prey. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Rio wove through the crowd, acutely aware of the stares that followed her. A woman in pearls sniffed and looked away. A silver-haired CEO missed his companion’s question entirely, his mouth slightly agape. Rio felt a smirk tug at her lips. This was power, too, of a kind. The power to disrupt.
She reached Agatha’s circle. “Ms. Thorne. Gentlemen.”
“Ah, Rio. Perfect timing,” Agatha said, her voice smooth as brandy. She introduced her vaguely—a valued member of the strategic team. The men shook her hand, their eyes carefully, politely, glued to her face with a concerted effort that was almost comical.
A waiter passed with champagne. Rio took a flute. As she turned back, she made a show of listening to a dull story about market volatility from a man named Harold. She leaned in, just slightly, allowing the precarious bodice to gape. Harold’s words faltered. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second before darting away, a red flush creeping up his neck.
From the corner of her eye, Rio saw Agatha’s hand tighten around her own wineglass. Her knuckles were bone-white.
The moment stretched. Agatha excused them both with flawless grace, her fingers closing around Rio’s bare upper arm. Her grip was vise-like. She steered them toward a relatively quiet alcove near a towering floral arrangement.
“Enjoying the view?” Agatha’s voice was a low, dangerous purr in her ear.
“It’s a lovely ballroom,” Rio replied, sipping her champagne.
“You know precisely what I mean.” Agatha’s thumb stroked the inside of Rio’s arm, a contrast to the steel in her tone. “That little display was for whose benefit, exactly?”
“I was just being engaged in the conversation.”
“You were being a brat.” Agatha’s smile was all teeth. “And while I appreciate the initiative, you are my brat. Your provocations are mine to command. Not Harold from Investments’.” She released Rio’s arm. “Circulate. Be seen. Be beautiful. But remember who you’re here for.”
Rio wandered, a dark satellite in Agatha’s orbit. She felt electrified, hyper-aware. The silk whispered against her naked skin. Every glance was a spark. She was at the bar ordering a mineral water when a presence materialized beside her.
“I have to admit, Ms. Morales, I didn’t think Thorne’s dedication to client relations extended quite this far.”
She turned. It was Erik Vance, the lead consultant from Haugen. Mid-forties, sharp-faced, with the easy confidence of a man used to winning. His eyes didn’t even attempt to hide their journey over her body.
“Vance,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.
“Erik, please. We’re not in the boardroom.” He leaned an elbow on the bar, crowding her space. “That dress is… a statement. I love it. It says, ‘We will do anything to win.’ I admire that. Really, I do.”
“It says I liked how it looked in the store,” Rio deflected, but her heart rate kicked up. This was the enemy, smelling blood in the water.
“Sure it does.” He laughed softly. “Look, I know the game. Thorne’s under pressure. The Vollmer thing was a masterstroke, if I say so myself. But it’s just business.” He lowered his voice. “Talented people shouldn’t go down with the ship. Haugen values innovation. And boldness.” His meaning hung in the air, tangled with the scent of his cologne and the implied appraisal of her sheer dress.
Before she could form a retort, a different voice cut through.
“Erik. Poaching my best at a gala? That’s low, even for you.”
Agatha was there, a green-clad avenger. She didn’t touch Rio, but her positioning was absolute, placing herself subtly between them.
Vance held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just appreciating the scenery, Agatha. You have impeccable taste.” The insult, wrapped in a compliment, was deft.
“I do. Which is why I know you’ll find the scenery from the outside looking in once I’ve secured the Atherton merger next week. Enjoy the canapés.” She took Rio’s elbow, her touch now a brand of ownership, and led her firmly away from the bar, through a side door marked ‘Private’, and into a dim, marble-lined hallway leading to the restrooms.
Agatha didn’t stop. She shoved open the door to the ladies’ lounge—an opulent, sitting-room-style space with velvet chaises and gold fixtures. It was empty. She locked the main door with a decisive click.
The civilized mask evaporated.
“Did you enjoy his offer?” Agatha spun Rio to face her, backing her against the cold marble vanity. “Did you like hearing how bold you are while his eyes were all over my property?”
“I didn’t—” Rio began, but Agatha cut her off with a searing kiss. It was a conquest, all teeth and dominance, tasting of champagne and fury. When she broke away, both of them were breathing hard.
“He wanted to see, didn’t he?” Agatha’s hands went to the dress, fingers digging into the fragile lace at Rio’s hips. “This little fucking tease. Let’s give him a better view.”
With a brutal jerk, she tore the dress open at the side seam. The sound of rending fabric was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Rio gasped as cool air hit her bare flank, her hip, the entire side of her body now exposed from armpit to thigh.
“You ruined it,” Rio breathed.
“I’ll buy you a hundred more.” Agatha’s hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her naked, already slick flesh. “Fucking soaked. For him? Or for me?”
“For you,” Rio whimpered, the truth torn from her.
“Good girl.”
Agatha turned her around, bending her over the vanity. Rio’s ripped dress pooled around her, her ass bare to the cool, polished air. In the mirror, she saw Agatha behind her, eyes black with intent, hiking up her own emerald gown with one hand.
“You want my strap-on, don’t you?” Agatha whispered, her other hand spreading Rio open. “You want to be filled, claimed, properly fucked in this dirty little bathroom.”
Rio nodded desperately, pressing her cheek against the marble.
“I don’t have it.” Agatha’s voice was a wicked, hot promise against her ear. “Tonight, you get me. Raw. You get my fucking hands, my fingers, my nails dug into your skin. You get what I decide to give you.”
She spat, a crude, wet sound, and used it to slick her fingers before driving two deep into Rio’s cunt. Rio cried out, the stretch immediate, the absence of silicone or mercy utterly shocking. This was Agatha, pure and unforgiving.
“That’s it. Take it. This is what you earned. This is the consequence of your little performance.” Agatha fucked her with her hand, the rhythm punishing, her knuckles pounding against Rio’s tender flesh. The wet, squelching sounds echoed off the marble. A third finger joined, stretching her brutally. “You are mine. Every gasp, every drop of cream on my fingers, every fucking shudder. Mine. Say it.”
“Yours!” Rio choked out, her own pleasure coiling tight, a desperate spring.
“Who do you belong to?” Agatha curled her fingers, scissoring them, owning the deepest, most sensitive parts of her.
“You! Agatha, please!”
“Come, then. Come on my hand like the greedy, bratty little cunt you are. Show me you understand.”
The orgasm was less a wave and more a detonation. It ripped through Rio with violent, shuddering force, a silent scream tearing from her throat. Her vision whited out as she clamped down on Agatha’s invading fingers, her body milking them in helpless, rhythmic pulses.
Agatha held her through it, a steady, immovable force, whispering filth into her ear. “Look at you. Look in the mirror. See what you are for me.”
Rio forced her eyes open. The reflection was debauched: her dress destroyed, her face contorted in ecstasy, a powerful woman’s arm buried between her legs. It was the most visceral truth she had ever seen.
Slowly, Agatha withdrew her glistening fingers. She brought them to Rio’s mouth. “Clean them.”
Rio obeyed, sucking her own taste from Agatha’s skin, the act of submission final and complete.
Agatha smoothed her own gown, her breathing returning to normal faster than Rio’s. She looked at the torn dress with a critical eye. “Hold it closed. We’ll leave through the service exit. My car is around back.”
Rio fumbled with the fabric, her body humming, her mind blissfully blank.
As Agatha unlocked the door, she paused, looking back. Her expression had shifted once more to that of the calculating CEO. “Vance made a mistake tonight. He showed me his hand. He’s nervous.” A cold, triumphant smile touched her lips. “Now I know how to break him.”
She opened the door, stepping back into the world of chandeliers and string quartets, leaving Rio to follow, pieced back together by the very hands that had torn her apart. The game outside was still on, but Rio now moved through it carrying a secret, a raw, throbbing truth beneath the ruined silk.