The chandelier bled gold over the ballroom.

Strings of red crystal hung like icicles above the heads of New York's most dangerous men and their wives, who sipped champagne with smiles that knew how to kill. The Volkov Estate was alive tonight — and yet Alek Volkov had never felt more like a corpse in a suit.

He stood at the top of the staircase, eyes like winter storms, watching his own party like a predator staring through glass.

“Happy birthday, брат.” Niko approached first — his younger brother, taller than most but still dwarfed by Alek’s 7’2 frame. “You look like you want to shoot the pianist.”

Alek didn’t respond. Just sipped black vodka from a crystal glass and scanned the room again — no blue hair. No oversized hoodie. No girl curled up in the corner reading while the world screamed around her.

“She’s not coming,” Yuri said quietly behind him, checking his phone. “No texts. Still offline.”

“She needs time,” added Lev, ever the voice of sugar and smoke. “And after what she found out... you should give it to her.”

Alek’s jaw tightened. His fingers flexed around the glass.

“She was never supposed to find out,” he said, low and hollow.

Maksim, standing to his right like a stone wall in human form, grunted. “You kill for her. You bleed for her. That’s love.”

“That’s obsession,” Niko muttered.

“She is mine.” The words came too sharp, too fast — and the music below paused for a breath too long.

From the grand piano, Ivana Volkov raised her champagne glass, smiling like a venomous rose. “To my brilliant stepson,” she called out to the crowd, her voice theatrical and false. “The future of the Volkov legacy — and the reason we’re all drinking expensive things!”

Laughter scattered across the ballroom like broken glass. Alek didn’t move.

At her side, Sergei Volkov, once the king of blood and business, leaned heavily on his cane, his eyes too tired to glare but too proud to look away.

“You may think you own the city, Alek,” he said when Alek approached moments later, “but you still belong to this family. To me.”

Alek looked down at him, colder than death. “I belong to no one.”

A sound broke the tension — heels. Sharp, deliberate. Enter Alina Volkov, dressed in silk red, with eyes full of poison and fire. She walked straight toward Alek, ignoring the tension around them, and reached up to fix his tie with delicate fingers.

“You know,” she whispered, just loud enough for his ears alone, “you wouldn’t feel so empty tonight if you stopped chasing the girl who doesn’t want you.”

Alek didn’t blink. “Touch me again and Maksim will remove your hands.”

Maks took one step forward. Alina’s smirk cracked.

“I could make you forget her,” she tried again.

“You were born forgettable,” Niko said coolly behind her.

She stormed off, but not without a final glance full of hate.

Back on the balcony, Alek returned to his silence. He watched the dancers below. The champagne. The shadows. The city beyond the estate gates. All of it useless.

Lev handed him a blind box. Small, pastel, Hello Kitty stamped on the side.

“Found it in Tokyo. Last of the set,” Lev said. “Figured you’d want it. For... if she talks to you again.”

Alek stared at it. His fingers shook for only half a second before he slid it into his coat pocket, near his heart.

“She thinks I’m a monster now,” he said finally, eyes distant.

“No.” Yuri looked up from his phone. “She always knew. She just hoped she was the exception.”

The room roared below them. Champagne flowed. The Volkovs laughed and lied and smiled their red smiles.

But Alek stood still, the most powerful man in the room, and felt nothing at all.

Because the one person he wanted to see tonight was the one person who wasn’t here.