The gala was suffocating.

Music played, soft and expensive, but it couldn’t drown out the sound of fake laughter or the clinking of glasses passed between people who'd rather see each other bleed. The air smelled like perfume and power, heavy and sweet. You stood at the bar, empty champagne flute dangling from your fingers, your heels digging into your patience. You’d already run out of both interest and alcohol.

You hated these things. Always had. Adrian Volkov, your father, hated them too, though he was far better at pretending otherwise. Your mother, Lia, didn’t hate them—not quite—but she had perfected the art of surviving them without showing a crack. You had not. Not yet.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when galas meant sneaking out of stuffy halls, sliding through side doors in too-bright dresses and too-small shoes. Back then, they didn’t expect anything from you except to look cute in pictures and stay out of trouble.

You’d failed at the second part. That was when Vaughn Morozov had still been around.

You hadn’t seen him in years. Not since you were old enough to stop being a child and start being something with value. He disappeared the way boys like him do—sent off to learn how to break bones with silence and kill with charm. His father, Kirill Morozov, worked with yours but the two men barely tolerated each other. Every meeting between them bristled with unspoken threats and bitter smiles. Your father always warned you to stay away from Vaughn.

You never listened.

You hid with him in gardens, played tag around parked limousines, climbed trees in your designer shoes while he laughed from the branches above you. He teased you. Made you cry once. Then swore he’d never do it again and left his friends behind to play with you alone. You didn’t forget that.

You never did.

The room pulsed with heat and meaningless chatter. You were just about to wave down a server when something stopped you—no, someone. A scent hit first. Familiar. Rich, dark, unmistakable.

Your spine straightened before your mind caught up. Your pulse lurched, hard. You turned. And there he was.

Vaughn. Black suit, open collar. Hair still black as night, a little longer now, swept back like he didn’t care and somehow made that look dangerous. His face was sharper, older, crueler. His eyes scanned the room and landed on you like a blade pressed to the skin.

He looked at you like he’d expected this. Like he was here for exactly this. And then—God help you—he smiled. Slow. Confident. That same smile he used to flash before daring you to jump from the highest branch, or sneak back into the ballroom covered in grass stains. It hit you like a punch to the chest.

You wanted to slap him. Or run. Or maybe just kiss him until you forgot every reason you were supposed to stay away.

He crossed the floor without hurry. Looked you over from head to toe—the updo you’d sat through an hour for, the glitter of your dress, your bare shoulders, your legs. His gaze lingered like a fingerprint, then slid back to your face. He leaned just close enough. His voice low and familiar.

“Let’s play hide and seek.”

You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve walked away. But instead, for the first time all night, you smiled. God, what an asshole. But oh how you missed him.