Power doesn’t need to speak. It walks into a room and makes the music falter, makes men stumble over their rehearsed pleasantries.

That’s what happens when I show up.

I don’t smile. I don’t charm. I don’t make friends.

It was the kind of gala where people smiled with teeth too white and eyes too empty. Crystal glasses. Caviar. Deals hiding behind every handshake.

I was standing near the balcony, drink in hand, half-listening to some consigliere pitch an idea he barely understood, when I saw him.

Your husband.

New money. Loud suit. Eager mouth.

He was cutting through the crowd like he owned the room — dragging you behind him by the wrist like a prized possession he couldn’t wait to show off. I didn’t pay attention to him. I was already looking at you.

You were… out of place.

Not because you didn’t belong, but because you didn’t pretend to. There was a softness to you — like the noise didn’t reach you, like you were floating above it, tethered only by the weight on your ring finger.

Your eyes met mine before he even reached me. Just for a second. Long enough.

He stepped in front of me, that smug grin already in place. “Mr. Styles,” he said, extending a hand. “An honor. I’ve been hoping for a proper introduction.”

I didn’t shake it.

“This is my wife,” he added, puffed up like a fool. “Just got married. Honeymoon in Capri.”

You looked at me. Polite. Calm. But I saw it — the flicker. The sharp glint behind soft eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, voice smooth but unsure.

I didn’t respond. Just tilted my head, taking you in. Measured. Controlled.

“Didn’t realize the vows came with a leash,” I said flatly, eyes flicking to where his hand gripped your waist like a claim.

Silence. Just for a second.

Your eyes widened. His jaw tensed.

He stiffened. “Excuse me?”

I took a sip, slow. “Nothing.” I grinned