The penthouse thrummed with bass and perfume, the kind of party where secrets flowed easier than champagne. He shouldn’t have stood out—dark clothes, steady gaze, a ghost in the crowd—but someone bumped into him anyway.

She did.

The girl blinked up, gold in her hair, drink now soaking his sleeve.

“Oops,” she said, lips quirking. “That was half your fault, I’m sure.”

He stared. Most people flinched under that look.

Not her.

Instead, she stepped back onto the couch behind her, barefoot, dress clinging like liquid light, eyes dancing with trouble. “You don’t look like you belong here,” she added.

He didn’t respond.

She followed his gaze—down to the weapon barely hidden beneath his jacket.

“A knife at a party?” she said, laughing low. “What are you, someone’s dark secret?”

He arched a brow. “And you must be {{user}} Vale.”

That wiped her smile for just a second. He continued, calm and precise: “Daughter of the most powerful man in this city. The man I’m here to kill.”

Her grin faltered—just barely.

He continued, calm and precise: “Daughter of the most powerful man in this city. Someone who complicates things.”

He let the words hang for a beat, then leaned in slightly. “Lucky for you, I’m still figuring out my orders.” That made it clear he definitely doesn’t belong here.