The soft clink of champagne glasses and the murmur of cultured conversations filled the grand hall of the Sterling Art Gallery. The evening shimmered with polished tuxedos, sequined gowns, and million-dollar smiles. In the corner, a string quartet played, their delicate notes floating like silk through the air.
Victor Blake stood near a modern sculpture — all cold steel and abstract edges — though his focus was nowhere near the art.
He scanned the glittering room with effortless confidence, the kind that made strangers glance twice before quickly looking away. Beneath his polished exterior, however, a quiet tension lingered. He wasn't here for brushstrokes or sculptures. Not tonight.
He'd heard whispers. Rumors that she might attend.
It was never certain. Alessia Romano didn't RSVP. She didn't need to. She arrived when she wished — and when she did, the room bent to her presence.
And then, as if gravity shifted, she appeared.
Alessia Romano.
Emerald silk clung to her frame like it had been stitched directly to her skin. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone and the glitter of a diamond choker that spoke of wealth, precision, and absolute control.
Victor felt it instantly — that flicker. Not just attraction. Something keener. A challenge.
She didn't scan the crowd. Didn't search for anyone. She walked as if she owned the air itself, as if every heartbeat in the room existed at her command.
Victor's breath paused — just for a fraction — before he masked it with a cool sip from his glass. The faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.
She came. That meant something. She wanted him to see her. She just wouldn't admit it.
Of course, she noticed him. She always would. But instead of approaching, Alessia turned deliberately toward a nearby painting, her body language dripping with disinterest. Yet her eyes — her eyes said otherwise.
Game on.
Victor set down his glass and moved. If she wasn't going to offer an opening, he'd carve one out himself.
"Alessia Romano," he said as he stopped beside her, voice smooth, deliberate. "I was beginning to think you didn't exist. Or that you were just a myth sent to humble men like me."
Her lips curved, faint but sharp, as she glanced at him.
"And yet here I am," she replied coolly. "Real. Solid. And entirely out of your reach, if I remember correctly."
She spoke like she was stating a fact. Untouchable. But he caught the lilt at the end — the subtle invitation hidden in the slap.
Victor chuckled, unbothered.
"Maybe I just wasn't reaching hard enough."
Her gaze lingered on the painting, but her words were meant for him. "Or maybe you were reaching in the wrong direction."
Ah. There it was. The bait.
Victor let the silence stretch, heavy with heat and unspoken truths, before he leaned closer.
"So you do know who I am."
"I make it my business to know who's knocking at my door," she murmured, finally tilting her head toward him. "Even if I don't intend to open it."
He smirked. She had definitely heard him knock. More than once. And he hadn't minded the waiting. The chase was part of the prize. But now? They were here. Face-to-face.
"Fair enough," he said slowly. "But I'm here now. The door open?"
Alessia tapped her chin lightly, feigning consideration.
"Mm. Temporarily. I like watching men try. It tells me everything I need to know."
Control. That was her game. Her pleasure. Deciding who was worth the chase — and who only thought they were.
Victor leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Then tell me this. What exactly are you watching for?"
Her eyes finally locked with his. Her answer was barely above a whisper.
"Fire. Not sparks. Not smoke. Fire. The kind that doesn't just warm — it burns."
The words struck him like thunder. She didn't want admiration. She wanted to be matched.
Victor's gaze darkened, but he didn't flinch. "Then you'll need someone who doesn't fear the heat."
A beat.
And then she smiled — slow, dangerous, knowing.
"Prove it, Blake."
With that, Alessia turned and walked away, her heels echoing across marble like a challenge thrown at his feet.
Victor watched her go, lips curving into a smile.
This wasn't rejection.
This was the opening move.
---
Adrian Blake sat behind his oak desk, the late afternoon sun slanting golden rays across polished floors. His phone buzzed for the fourth time before he finally answered.
Stephen, his silent shadow, stood nearby.
"Juliana," Adrian greeted, voice low.
Juliana Hart's voice drifted through the receiver, laced with worry beneath her polished composure. "It's been days, Adrian. Seraphina never goes this long without calling. Is she unwell?"
Adrian leaned back, tapping his fingers lightly against the armrest. His tone was calm, measured. "She's fine. Just needed rest. I've kept her off the phone so she can recover properly."
Juliana exhaled softly. "I understand. Still, hearing her voice would put me at ease."
"Of course. I'll put her on now."
"Thank you, dear." Relief softened her words.
Adrian hung up without a goodbye. Rising, he adjusted his cuffs and strode from the study, Stephen following silently.
---
Raya sat on the edge of her bed, legs folded beneath her, staring at the formal dress draped across the chair. Tomorrow's etiquette lesson loomed, and already her body ached from today's endless drills.
A sharp knock cut through her thoughts.
She jumped to her feet just as the door opened. Adrian stepped inside.
"You have a call," he said flatly.
Raya blinked. "A call?"
"Juliana Hart," he clarified. "Her mother. You're going to speak to her. Now."
Her chest tightened. "I can't—what if I say something wrong?"
Adrian stepped closer, his voice cold steel. "Then your father bleeds. Again."
Her breath hitched. She glared at him without meaning to, but he ignored it.
"Now. Keep your voice calm. Polite. Short. Don't overdo it. Don't slip. She knows her daughter better than anyone."
He handed her the phone, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her like a hawk.
The line connected.
"Hello?"
Raya froze. Juliana's voice was softer than she imagined. Gentle. Maternal.
"Seraphina? Darling?"
Raya pressed the phone closer. "Hi… Mum."
The word stumbled out, fragile and strange. Heavy. She had never said it before. Not even to Aunt Rebecca, Anna's mother, whom she had always called by name.
Juliana gasped softly on the other end. "Oh, sweetheart. You sound tired. Adrian said you were unwell."
"I'm… getting better," Raya answered carefully. "I just needed some rest. Adrian's been helpful."
Adrian's eyes sharpened at the mention of his name. It was the first time she had spoken it aloud.
"That's all right," Juliana said gently. "Next time, just a message will do. I've been worried sick."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."
A soft chuckle. "You're still so stubborn, just like your father."
Raya forced a small smile. "I guess I am. I had his eye, not yours." The words slipped too easily, and she regretted them instantly.
Silence followed.
"How are you, darling? Truly?" Juliana asked.
"I'm… doing better," Raya said slowly. "I needed time. Away from everything."
"Are you eating well?"
"Yes."
"And sleeping?"
"Trying to."
"Good girl," Juliana whispered warmly. Her tone wrapped around Raya like a fragile embrace. "Sometimes I still picture you as that little girl in her ballet shoes, hair flying everywhere."
Raya's throat tightened. She forced a brittle laugh. "Feels like a long time ago."
"It does," Juliana said softly. "But you're still my little dancer."
Her chest ached. Tears threatened, but she bit them back.
"You don't have to talk long," Juliana added. "Just tell me you're okay."
Raya closed her eyes. "I'm okay, Mum. Really."
There was a pause, then the sound of a sniffle. "All right. I'll let you rest. Just promise to call tomorrow."
"I promise."
"Your father sends his love. He's busy as always, but he misses you."
Raya's lips pressed together. She couldn't answer. Adrian's stare weighed on her like iron.
"And you?" Juliana asked softly. "Do you miss us?"
Raya's lips parted.
A beat passed.
Then another.