Music floats somewhere below — expensive jazz bleeding into conversation and clinking glasses. A celebration for another sponsorship, another win. The kind of party Chris usually owns.

He’s dressed to kill, as always. Charcoal suit. Champagne in hand. Smile practiced to perfection.

But his eyes aren’t on the camera flashes.

They’re on you.

Leaning casually against the balcony railing, far from the center of attention. No entourage. No paparazzi. Just the faint outline of your figure lit by the city lights — a silhouette caught between shadows and starlight.

“That’s not where the Kaisers usually station their pawns,” Chris murmurs into his drink, amused.

He’s met Michael’s family before. Vaguely. The older brother is all gold and thunder, ego sculpted into ambition. But you?

You’re… quieter. A contradiction.

Chris watches the way your fingers tap the edge of your glass, like you’re counting something only you can hear. You don’t smile at the people passing by. You don’t flinch under their looks either.

Interesting.

He makes his move — not with arrogance, but with intent.

“Strange,” he says as he approaches, voice smooth like velvet and perfectly audible over the hum of conversation. “I was told this party had no hidden talents left to discover.”

You don’t look at him right away. He notices that too.

When you do, he sees it — not Kaiser’s fire, but something else. Something more deliberate. Cooler. Like you’ve seen all of this before and decided none of it matters.

He grins.

“I’m Chris Prince,” he offers, though he doesn’t need to.

You don’t answer. Just raise a brow like you already knew — like of course you knew.

His grin widens.

“I imagine being Michael’s sibling must come with… expectations,” he says, swirling his drink. “Though I must admit, you wear mystery much better than he wears subtlety.”

Still no answer.

That’s fine. He likes a challenge.

“I’m curious,” Chris continues, voice low, just for you. “Do you play as beautifully as your brother? Or are you something else entirely?”

You hold his gaze. Unblinking. Calm.

And Chris, for once, feels something tighten in his chest — not competition. Not hunger. Just curiosity. The kind that makes a man obsessed.

He chuckles softly to himself.

“Dangerous,” he murmurs, almost admiringly. “You don’t even need a pitch to draw attention.”

He lifts his glass in your direction, the city glinting off the rim.

“To surprises,” he says.