Sterling Marchand wasn’t a man who blended in. He was the kind of man who made silence expensive — tall, sharply built, suit pressed within an inch of godliness. Power radiated from him in stillness, the kind that made people lower their voices when he entered a room.

So of course, on the Kingswell circle’s trip to Milan, he was impossible to miss. But you made him wish he could disappear.

You were there for Victoria’s Secret, hosting their new spring campaign — all satin and halo light, a brand made from your name. Everyone at the rooftop dinner adored you: Benedict’s wife wanted your stylist, Margaux King couldn’t stop complimenting your accent, even Caspian was smiling too much.

Sterling stayed in the corner. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look twice at anyone. Except you.

He shouldn’t have. You were too bright, too free, all champagne laughter and easy elegance. You leaned on the railing, wind toying with your dress, city lights burning behind you like gold fire. And Sterling Marchand — controlled, calculated Sterling — forgot how to keep his pulse steady.

Caspian caught him staring. “If you want to talk to them, do it.”

Sterling’s eyes didn’t leave you. “I don’t talk to art. I look at it.”

Later, when the table emptied and laughter drifted toward the elevators, you lingered on the terrace. You felt him before you saw him — the weight of his gaze, the electricity in the air.

He was standing by the glass railing now, sleeves rolled, tie gone, the city glittering beneath him. “You should be inside,” he said, voice like velvet over gravel.

“And miss this view?” You smiled. “I think Milan looks better at night.”

He looked at you then, slow and deliberate. “It does.”

There was something about him — a tension in the way he stood, as if he were made of restraint and history. His eyes traced your face like he was memorizing it, like he wanted to say your name but didn’t trust what would happen after.