"Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that." I hand him my untouched champagne. "I'm going to have a conversation with my former fiancée."
"Maksim—"
But I'm already moving, cutting through the crowd like a predator tracking prey. People notice me—of course they do—and conversations die in my wake. Whispers follow me across the ballroom.
I’m officially noticed.
Is that really him?
I thought he was dead.
What's he doing here?
I ignore them all, focused on one target.
She's slipped out onto the terrace. I watch through the glass as she moves further into the gardens beyond. Away from witnesses. Away from safety.
I follow, keeping to the shadows. The garden is elaborately landscaped. Someone has taken the time and effort to remove every trace of snow, as if the cold isn’t allowed to touch this area. The sounds of the party fade behind us as she walks deeper into the darkness.
She's wearing heels—impractical for escape—and the midnight blue dress catches moonlight like water. I watch her and hate that she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Hate that six years of torture didn't kill what I felt for her.
Hate that even now, planning her destruction, part of me wants to pull her close and pretend none of this happened.
She reaches a stone wall at the edge of the garden property and stops; her hand braced against it like she needs the support. Her shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths.
This is my moment.
I move silently—lessons learned in captivity, how to approach without being heard—and close the distance between us in seconds.
She starts to turn, some instinct warning her, but I'm faster. My hand grabs her shoulder and I spin her around, pressing her back against the stone wall. Hard enough to trap her, not hard enough to hurt.
Yet.
She opens her mouth to scream, and my hand covers it, cutting off the sound. We're face to face now, close enough that I can see her pupils dilate in shock and recognition.
"Hello, Kira," I say softly. "Miss me?"
Her eyes are huge above my hand, filled with something I can't quite read. Fear, yes. Shock, definitely. But something else. Something that looks almost like...
No. I won't let myself see hope or relief or love. Those are lies. Manipulations.
She tries to speak against my palm, and I shake my head.
"Not yet. I'm going to move my hand, and you're not going to scream. Because if you do, if you bring security running, you won't get answers to the thousand questions I can see in your eyes." I lean closer. "Understand?"
She nods, jerky and uncertain.
I lower my hand slowly, ready to cover her mouth again if she makes a sound.
She doesn't scream. Doesn't call for help.
Instead, her hand comes up and connects with my face in a slap that rocks my head to the side.
The shock of it—the sheer audacity—almost makes me smile.
