The car slowsbeneath a canopy of gold light and cameras.
I sit between Papa and Mikhail in the back seat, Dmitri in front, the city reflecting in the tinted glass like something distant and unreal. The building ahead glows with curated elegance, all marble steps and red carpet and quiet wealth pretending it is benevolent.
Papa adjusts his cufflinks once, deliberate. Mikhail checks his watch. Dmitri scans the entrance before the car even fully stops.
No one says anything.
My phone vibrates in my purse. The timing makes my pulse jump. I pull it out and glance down.
Riot: You look beautiful.
The air in my lungs shifts. He hasn’t even seen me yet. I haven’t stepped out of the car. My fingers tighten slightly around the phone. I type before I can overthink it.
Me: You haven’t even seen me.
Riot: I don’t need to.
My chest tightens and my stomach flutters. This is not the time to think of him, but I can’t deny that he has been taking up more space in my mind than anyone ever has.
The driver opens the door and the night air is cool when I step out, fabric sliding over my legs as I rise. The black dress falls exactly the way it should. Clean lines. No apology. Diamond earrings catching the flash of cameras.
Papa steps out beside me, composed and unreadable. Dmitri and Mikhail flank us instinctively. The lights are blinding for a moment. Microphones are extended and our names are called. Cameras flash as pictures are taken.
The ballroom doors are open ahead, spilling light and music into the foyer. I step inside, posture straight, expression neutral, scanning without appearing to. I do not look for Konstantin. I look for him in the sea of people. I finally spot him near the far side of the room, standing in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.
The air leaves my lungs. He was beautiful before. In denim, leather, and biker boots. But seeing him like this is something else entirely. The tuxedo fits him like it was designed for his body. Broad shoulders contained by sharp lines. White shirt crisp against his skin. Dark hair pushed back, clean-shaven jaw carved in candlelight and crystal. He looks less like a biker and more like something deliberate and devastating.
He does not look out of place, he looks inevitable, as if this room rearranged itself around him. His gaze finds me immediately, direct and unwavering, and the noise of the ballroom dulls toa distant hum. For a fraction of a second, I forget why we are here. He doesn’t smile. He simply looks at me as though he is verifying something, as if he needs to see with his own eyes that I am steady. I am. My phone vibrates again in my hand.
Riot: You’re staring.
I don’t realize I am until my cheeks warm. I type back without looking away.
Me: So are you.
He finally allows himself the faintest curve of his mouth and the sight of it does something reckless to my pulse.
Mikhail shifts closer to me subtly. “Is he going to keep looking at you like that all night?”
“Yes,” I say without thinking.
Mikhail exhales slowly. “Good.”
Across the room, Konstantin stands near a cluster of investors and politicians, immaculate in his own tuxedo, posture regal, expression smooth. He sees me. His smile is perfect yet it does not reach his eyes. He’s a snake dressed in an expensive suit.
Riot shifts slightly, adjusting his cuff as if bored, but I can see the coiled tension in him even from here. He belongs in a fight, not belong in a ballroom. Yet somehow, tonight, he looks more dangerous in a tux than he ever did in his cut.
My phone vibrates once more.
Riot: I don’t like the way he’s looking at you.
My pulse steadies.
Me: I don’t care
Across the room, Riot’s gaze darkens.
The ballroom is louder than it should be. Crystal and silk and expensive perfume trying to disguise the fact that half the people in this room are measuring territory instead of tasting champagne.
