He spots you the second you step into the ballroom—of course he does. Even behind a mask, even hidden under glitter and silk, he knows that posture. That chin tilted just high enough to look like you’re above it all. Above him.

You shouldn’t even be here. Not in his house. Not surrounded by his people. But you walk in like you own the place, and that alone makes his blood heat.

He watches you from across the room. The chandeliers drip gold light over the crowd, masks flashing as laughter echoes through the mansion, but all he can see is you. He hates that. He hates how you manage to draw every pair of eyes without even trying.

When someone brushes past him, he catches a word—your name—and it’s like a trigger. He downs the rest of his drink and moves through the crowd.

You’re standing near the staircase, swirling champagne in your glass like you’re bored. Like you’re just waiting for him to come to you. You probably are.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says as he stops beside you, voice low, almost lazy. But you both know there’s venom underneath.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even look at him at first. “And yet,” you murmur, taking a sip, “you’re already talking to me. You must’ve missed me more than you thought.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Missed the sound of your voice, maybe. Reminds me what a headache feels like.”

That earns him a look. Sharp. The kind that cuts more than any words could. You tilt your head slightly, mask glinting in the light. “Funny. I could say the same about yours.”

The space between you feels electric, but not the kind that sparks into something sweet—it burns, thick with the kind of tension that could start a fire if either of you got too close.

He leans in, just enough for you to catch the faint smell of smoke and whiskey on his breath. “Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You play this game too long, you might lose.”

You smile—slow, cold. “You’d have to matter to me first.”

It’s cruel. It’s perfect. It’s you.

And before he can respond, you brush past him, shoulder grazing his chest. He turns, watching you disappear into the blur of masks and music, fury and fascination tangled tight in his gut.

He should forget it. Forget you. But he doesn’t.

Because hate like that doesn’t fade. It lingers. It thrives.