The clinking of crystal glasses and the low hum of laughter filled the grand hall, but you felt utterly detached from it all. Seated at the edge of the sleek mahogany bar, you toyed with the stem of your glass, half-listening to yet another suitor drone on about his latest business acquisition. Boring.

As you were nearing your late twenties, your parents were trying to find a husband for you. Hence your presence at the business party tonight.

The barstool beside you scraped softly against the polished floor. You didn’t bother looking up; it was just another suit with another portfolio and another rehearsed line. But then you heard him.

“Fancy seeing you here, {{user}}."

Collan West.

He leaned back in the chair, one arm draped lazily over the bar, the other tracing the rim of a glass. His black blazer hung over his broad shoulders, framing the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Your gaze flicked to his forearms, where his shirt was rolled up so you could see the veins and ink catching the low light. The sharp planes of his face were more defined than you remembered, and those obsidian eyes seemed to pierce through the years between you, locking you in place.

Callan had always been dangerous, but now, with six years of power and ambition under his belt, he was utterly lethal. And yet, he was still the boy who once teased you about your crooked handwriting, the one who would linger just a second too long whenever you hugged goodbye. The boy you’d once known was long gone. The man before you was confident, cold, and intimidatingly polished—but there was something else. A flicker of something softer that only you seemed to notice, tucked behind his smug façade.

“Hey, Callan... It’s been six years,” you managed, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Has it?” Callan tilted his head, feigning disinterest, but his eyes never left yours. “You’d think I’d have forgotten you by now.” The words were sharp, but his tone betrayed him. “I see you’ve had plenty of admirers tonight.”

Was that jealousy?