The dashboard lights up—Ashley.
I press the button on the wheel, her crisp voice filling the car.
“Mr. Petrov. You asked me to keep tabs on the boy. Lucas. I’ve got something.”
My hand drags through my hair. My throat feels dry.
“Go on.”
“There isn’t much. He lives in a small apartment near the riverbank. Old train station area. He shares it.”
“Shared?” My tone sharpens.
“With a Guy named Tyler. Works as a chef in the university dining hall.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Their relationship?”
“I can’t confirm. Nothing suggests it’s romantic. From what I’ve seen, they’re close. I caught them communicating in sign this morning, at Lucas’s workplace.”
Close. That single word gnaws at me. Too close? Closer than I want to imagine?
I swallow it back, try to keep my voice even. “And personally? Anything?”
Ashley hesitates. “He’s private. Very private. Hard to pin down. But I’ll keep digging.”
“Do that.” The irritation cuts sharper than I meant it to.
There’s a pause, then her tone dips, almost cautious.
“One more thing, sir. He’ll be working the event tonight. As one of the servers.”
My brow arches. A low hum slips from me before I can stop it. Here?
For the first time tonight, I feel something other than irritation. Something heavier. Sharper.
I end the call without another word.
I don’t believe in fate. Life isn’t ruled by chance—it’s ruled by money, power, control. That’s all.
And yet… Lucas keeps crossing my path, Like the world is testing me, daring me to see if I can take something fragile, claim it, and hold it without shattering it.
And I have never wanted to take a dare so badly.
* * *
The gallery hums with low conversations, soft jazz trickling through hidden speakers. Canvases line the white walls,some impressive, most forgettable. Maksim’s work, though, is different. Darker. He always gravitates to deep blues, bruised purples, and charcoal blacks. He paints people, too, but rarely clear and blurred faces, as if seen through smoke or shattered glass.
I stand beside Anton, who looks about as engaged as a marble statue. Arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowed in studied indifference. My older brother—the perfect heir—draped in a black Brunello Cucinelli suit like he was born in it. Silent, cold, reliable. At thirty-one, he doesn’t waste words, doesn’t waste breath; he never has to. He’s the only one I look up to. The only one who really knows me. We’d kill for each other. Die for each other. That’s the bond.
“That one is tolerable,” Anton mutters at last, chin flicking toward a canvas of cracked porcelain faces staring at each other across a void.
I grunt. That’s as much commentary as I have to give.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” a drawl cuts in from behind. Familiar and amused.
I turn, one brow lifting. Viktor.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his easy smirk carved into place, though it never quite reaches his eyes. My cousin. My best friend, if I could call anyone that.
