The chandeliers glitter like frozen constellations, suspended above a ballroom filled with silk, money, and danger. The Ward Family's annual gala is the kind of event whispered about across the city—where alliances are formed with a handshake, and enemies are ruined with a smile.
Mira Leone steps through the marble archway, her breath catching despite her best efforts. She's seen wealth before, but not like this. Not this sharp, cold kind of beauty that feels more like a warning than an invitation.
Stay calm. Walk. Don't draw attention.
But that's impossible tonight.
Her black gown, simple compared to the jeweled extravagance around her, clings to her curves in a way that makes her feel far too visible. She smooths a palm over her hip, forcing her shoulders back as if the movement could hide the faint tremor traveling through her body.
This isn't her world.
She's only here because Mrs. Bianchi—her boss at the art restoration firm—insisted she accompany her to deliver a restored 18th-century painting.
A simple job, Mira told herself.
But nothing in this place is simple.
The music swells, violins sharp and elegant, and Mira steps deeper into the ballroom. Everywhere she looks, she sees power: in the subtle nods of men in tailored suits, the clink of crystal glasses, the way conversations stop and start like coded messages.
Then she feels it.
A gaze. Heavy. Focused.
Her spine stiffens before she even turns.
Across the room, standing near the marble staircase like he owns the entire building, is Elias Ward.
Tall. Perfectly controlled. Black suit tailored to his body with surgical precision. His presence is magnetic in a quiet, lethal way—like a storm waiting for permission to break.
His eyes, a cold steel-gray, lock onto hers.
Mira's breath stutters.
Why is he looking at me like that?
She forces herself to turn away, pretending to be fascinated by a passing waiter's tray, but the damage is already done. Her pulse is racing.
Mrs. Bianchi finally appears, flustered and glowing with the thrill of being among the elite.
"There you are," she whispers, grabbing Mira's hand. "Come, we must greet the host. The eldest son is here tonight."
Mira swallows.
Of course he is.
She follows her boss through the shifting sea of gowns and black suits, praying the crowd will swallow her whole.
But the gods are cruel tonight.
Before they reach the presentation area, a glass clinks sharply, cutting through the music. Conversations die instantly.
A man steps up onto the mini stage—tall, dark-haired, and dangerously handsome. But unlike Elias's cold composure, this man radiates heat. A restless, reckless energy.
Riven Ward.
If Elias is winter, Riven is wildfire. His black shirt is slightly unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up as though he's about to either fight someone or kiss someone senseless. His lips pull into a smirk that makes half the women in the room exhale.
"Welcome," Riven drawls, voice thick with charm and something darker. "Let's all pretend we're here for art and charity, and not because my family would drag us back if we tried to leave."
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Mira tries not to stare, but fails—until Riven's eyes abruptly land on her.
His grin fades.
Heat surges across the space between them, sharp enough to steal her breath. His gaze drags slowly down her body, not crude but searching, as if he's trying to place her. As if he never forgets a face—and hers is new.
His eyes widen a fraction.
Interest.
Recognition.
Or something like hunger.
No, no, no… don't look at me like that.
She tears her gaze away, heart pounding.
Mrs. Bianchi squeezes her arm. "Behave. That's Riven. He's unpredictable."
"I can tell," Mira mutters under her breath.
Before she can recover, someone clears their throat behind them. Mira turns—and freezes.
Elias Ward stands there.
Up close, he's even more devastating. His eyes sweep the room once before returning to her.
"Mrs. Bianchi," he says with a polite nod. "Thank you for attending."
His voice is smooth, calm—too calm, as if every word has been examined and sharpened before being spoken.
Then he turns to Mira.
"And you are?"
Mira opens her mouth, but her mind blanks completely.
Say something. Say anything.
"This is Mira Leone," Mrs. Bianchi jumps in proudly. "My most trusted restorer. She handled the Tenebris painting."
Something shifts in Elias's expression. Interest? Calculation?
"Impressive," he says softly. "May I speak with her alone for a moment?"
Mira nearly chokes. Alone? With him?
Mrs. Bianchi beams and scurries off before Mira can protest.
Elias studies her carefully, not moving, not blinking.
"Is this your first time attending one of our family's events?"
"Yes," Mira manages. "And… probably my last."
His lips twitch. Almost a smile.
"You might be surprised."
What does that mean?
Before she can ask, a sharp voice cuts in.
"I didn't realize we were poaching new guests."
Riven.
He steps up beside Elias, tension crackling between the brothers like electricity. His gaze flicks briefly to Elias before settling on Mira with unsettling intensity.
"You didn't tell me we were hosting someone interesting tonight."
Mira swallows hard.
Elias's voice cools another degree. "She is a guest. Not entertainment."
Riven steps closer to Mira as if Elias hadn't spoken at all.
"What's your name?"
"M-Mira."
"Mira," he repeats slowly, tasting the name. "Beautiful."
Heat rises to her cheeks.
Elias's jaw tightens.
Riven notices—and smirks.
"Well," Riven says, lowering his voice, "welcome to the Ward gala. Don't wander off alone. Not everyone here is as charming as I am."
"I can handle myself," Mira says before thinking.
Elias's eyes sharpen.
Riven's grin spreads.
"Oh, I bet you can," Riven murmurs.
Elias steps slightly in front of Mira, a move so subtle most wouldn't notice—but Riven does.
The tension between them is so thick Mira can barely breathe.
What is happening? Why are they acting like—
"Miss Leone," Elias says, still holding Riven's stare, "if my brother is making you uncomfortable—"
"He's fine," Mira blurts. "Both of you are… fine."
That earns her two very different reactions:
Elias—quiet surprise.
Riven—amused delight.
Then, unexpectedly, the room's mood shifts again.
Guests turn. Whispers rise.
A man in a dark red suit steps onto the stage.
The head of a rival family.
Mira feels both brothers immediately tense.
Elias leans toward her, voice low.
"Mira. Stay close."
Riven's eyes narrow, a dangerous spark lighting behind them.
"Don't go anywhere."
Oh God.
What did I walk into tonight?
The gala may glitter with gold and crystal…
but beneath it?
Tonight, Mira has stepped straight into the lion's den.
And two lions have already noticed her