It’s how he got me an invitation to that restaurant opening where I saw Vaughn again, too. Cy is just a man of many talents. And hackers. Pretty sure he dabbles in that stuff occasionally as well. As he likes to say—technological information is power.
So to the opening I went, I guess.
Not sure who the hell decided canvases with random brush vomit deserve worship, but here I am, glass in hand, surrounded by silent nodders pretending this shit makes sense.
The gallery smells like old money and synthetic roses. The walls are white enough to bleach your soul, and the lighting’s so dramatic, it resembles one of Dad’s torture chambers. A red canvas splattered with what looks like mud gets a slow hum of appreciation from some silver-haired man beside me.
My gaze is searching the crowd, and that’s when I see him. While this isn’t my world and never will be, it’s definitely his.
Vaughn.
He stands before a massive painting I hadn’t even noticed, as if the oxygen itself bends toward him. One hand in his pocket, his jaw set in quiet disdain, his tux sculptedperfectly over his frame. His hair is neat, his eyes locked on the canvas with the same razor focus he gives people when deciding where they belong on his chessboard.
The painting shows two faceless figures on stark white—one slumped, bleeding, the other reaching out but never touching. Cold shadows. Violent reds.
I ignore whatever the man beside me says as I stride toward the reason I made this impulsive trip. Vaughn doesn’t hear me over the quiet hum of classical music and polite laughter.
My nostrils flare with his scent as I stand beside him and stare ahead. “This is what you abandoned me for? Shit art?”
His head whips in my direction, his eyes wide, but his jaw tics as he searches our surroundings, then speaks in a whisper-yell, “Why on earth are you here, Yulian?”
“Wanted to see the event that’s so important it prevented you from coming home, and I’m not impressed.”
“That place isnotmy home,” he says in a low tone, then stares at the painting. “This is.”
He might as well have shot me in the chest.
No, seriously, my heart is in so much pain, it hurts to breathe.
“You should go.” He speaks coldly, emotionlessly. He’s nothing like the smiley, warm Vaughn who grins lazily upon seeing me on the island.
It’s as if he’s had a personality transplant.
Fuck this asshole.
How dare he treat me like this?
“Vinyoshka?”
Vaughn tenses up at the careful feminine voice, andwhen we turn around, we’re faced by his parents, who are both watching me as if I’m a threat.
Did his dad just reach into his waistband?
Fuck me. This is the last thing I needed.
I grin. “Hi, I’m Yulian.”
“I know exactly who you are, Dimitriev,” Kirill says, his hand still in his waistband. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing here, in my city, next to my son. If your father has anything to say, he can talk to me.”
“No, no, it’s not about my father. I was just around and figured I’d say hi to Vaughn.” I’m speaking coolly, forcing myself to remain relaxed, which is a sharp contrast to Vaughn’s tense jaw and blanched expression.
His brain seems to have short-circuited since his parents showed up. Guess he’s probably panicking about the prospect of them finding out he really loves dick—more specifically,mydick.
Kirill frowns the same way Vaughn does on the regular, and Alexandra watches me intently as she asks, “How do you know Vaughn…?”
“Cursed summer camp four years ago, remember?” I laugh, but they’re not joining in. “We met on the island again when he came by to visit Jeremy and the others.”
“Right,” she says.
