IVY GALANIS' POV
"Uhm, Maya," I tap her arm lightly, raising my voice over the music. "Can we leave now?"
"Ivy! Don't be such a buzzkill!" she screams, slurring just enough for me to know that she has crossed that line between tipsy and tragic.
Three martinis might have been too much for her to handle. Or was it four?
"Babe, don't tell me you are drunk already."
"No! No!" she objects, waving her hand like a malfunctioning traffic light. "I am definitely not drunk. Just. . . mildly intoxicated."
Mildly intoxicated, my ass.
The music is getting louder, the crowd thicker. A thousand bodies swaying to the bass like waves in a glitter storm. Lights flash, perfume and vodka mix in the air, and it feels like the walls themselves are pulsating. Basically, the partying does not seem to be dying down anytime soon.
"I think we should leave now, May," I try again, raising my voice. "We have been here for hours."
But she is not listening. Her gaze is locked past the crowd, up toward the bar's right corner, where sleek black stairs spiral upward into the VVIP lounge.
"Maya?"
Her eyes widen. The fog of alcohol clears in an instant. She grips my wrist like she has seen a ghost — or worse, a miracle. "Oh my God. Ivy. That is Julian Grant."
"Who?" I ask, raising my voice to beat the ever-increasing volume of the music.
"Julian. Niklaus. Grant!" she practically squeals, gripping my wrist tighter like she is about to faint. "The heir to the Grant Empire. As in Grant Real Estate."
I follow her stare and freeze, completely taken aback by the fact that it is not the alcohol talking.
Descending the staircase in a tailored all-black suit, he is not walking. He is arriving. Each step deliberate, predatory, commanding. He looks like he was sculpted from arrogance and old money — his presence seems to bend the air around him.
My breath catches. Could this day throw any more surprises my way?
He moves with an air of unbeatable confidence toward the rope divider of the private section closer to the stairs. The strobe lights graze the sharp edge of his jaw, his cufflinks flash even from across the room, and I can feel the pull of him.
Seeing the man I am so used to passing by on billboards, in headlines, on Forbes' list, and in TV features in the flesh is dizzying for real. It feels. . . unreal.
He leans against the polished marble bar like it was carved for him. His gaze sweeps lazily across the room until it lands point-blank on me.
Not on us — on me.
It does not just read as a stare to me; it feels more like a tether. A silent claim.
My pulse spikes. My throat goes dry. I should look away, but something in that gaze holds me still. My fingers twitch toward the silver pendant resting at my collarbone — a small, nervous habit I long realized I can't control.
"Let us go over there," Maya blurts, already rising to her feet.
"Are you insane?" I hiss, gripping her arm tightly before she can take another step. "We can't just walk up to him!"
"It is high time you step out of that bubble of yours, Ivy," she says as she pulls her hand out of my grasp. "What is the worst that could happen?"
Everything, I think. Literally everything could happen.
But my better judgment is clearly dead or drunk, or both. Because the next thing I know, she is dragging me through the crowd — past dancers, tables, and the smell of expensive champagne. Every step feels like a bad decision wrapped in too many bad choices.
His eyes track us as we move closer. That nerve-wrecking expression of curiosity and danger never wavers.
When we reach him, Maya flashes her brightest smile, the kind she reserves for social climbers and cameras. "Nice to meet you, Julian. I am Maya Morgan. Do you mind if we join you?"
He does not flinch. Does not even look surprised. The corner of his mouth only lifts slightly, a hint of amusement — or mockery. "As you wish, Miss Morgan."
His voice is smooth and expensive, the kind that makes you forget what you were about to say.
"I could not help but notice your handsome face from across the room," Maya continues, pulling out every flirt tactic in the book. "It is such an honour to meet you."
"Likewise," he replies easily, eyes flicking to her then back to me. "Your last name rings a bell."
"Yes, I am sure it does!" Maya beams. "Jordan Morgan is my father."
"The '80s sensation, I believe," Julian says, engaging her just enough to be courteous but not enough to be interested — a practiced charm.
Maya laughs too loudly. "Exactly!"
Then his attention fully shifts. His tone dips slightly, like velvet laced with danger. "I didn't get your name earlier."
"Oh, her—" Maya starts.
"Not you," he cuts her off cleanly. His gaze does not leave mine. "Her."
The way he looks at me is not polite. It is invasive, if I am being honest. As if he is peeling me back without laying a finger, stripping away every layer like they know secrets I have not even told myself.
My throat tightens.
"Uh. . . I'm Ivy," I manage, my voice barely surviving the sound of my own pulse.
"Ivy." He says my name like he is tasting it. Like the word itself, it just became his new favourite sin.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ivy."
"S-Same," I whisper.
His smile is slow — dangerous in how it does not quite reach his eyes.
"I should take my leave now," he says, rising from his seat.
"So soon?" Maya protests, leaning forward.
"Unfortunately, business calls." He adjusts his cufflinks, his voice steady as ever. "It was nice meeting you both."
He turns to leave. But when he reaches my side, he stops.
The space between us folds. He leans in — close enough that I catch the scent of him: black vanilla, expensive whiskey, sin in a bottle. My heart stutters.
"Don't tempt me next time with this little black dress of yours, schatz," he murmurs, his voice low and deliberate. "I would not mind tearing it off you."
The word schatz — sweetheart in German — should not sound like that filthy. Like a sin waiting to happen. But it does.
He lingers a heartbeat longer before slipping something into my palm. "Call me, Ivy. There is something we need to talk about. It is very. . . important."
And then, he is gone.
The music surges again, the lights flare violet and gold, and Maya sits frozen beside me — her expression unreadable. But all I can feel is the heat still clinging to my skin where his voice touched it.
He saw me.
Not as a shadow. Not as someone's sidekick.
He saw me.
I finally glance down at my hand. A business card, black and gold. His name etched in serif perfection: Julian Grant.
My heart is in chaos. My mind is an echo chamber.
Did the Julian Grant just flirt with me?
Because it feels like the beginning of something I won't be able to come back from.