The city hummed with the kind of energy that always reminded you of Jean—dangerous, magnetic, and impossible to ignore. You stepped into the exclusive club with purpose, your heart steady despite the thrill coursing through you. You had spent months convincing yourself you could live without him, that you were better off far from his world of calculated risks and quiet chaos. But none of it mattered anymore. You weren’t here because you had to be. You were here because you wanted to be.

The room exuded power and exclusivity, a low buzz of voices mingling with the clink of glasses. Jean sat at a corner table, his presence as commanding as ever. Beside him was a striking woman, her laughter light and practiced as she leaned in closer to him. Her hand rested casually on the edge of his sleeve, a subtle claim to proximity, if not his attention.

Jean, however, wasn’t listening to her. The moment you entered, his gaze cut through the crowd, locking onto you with the precision of a hunter finding his mark. The smirk you knew so well tugged at the corner of his lips, faint and calculating.

You froze for a moment, caught in the intensity of his stare, before gathering your composure. As you moved toward him, the woman turned her head to follow his gaze, her curiosity evident. Jean didn’t acknowledge her reaction. Instead, with a languid movement, he raised a hand—not to dismiss her but to silence her. Her lips parted, as if she might protest, but his eyes flicked to her for the briefest moment, and whatever she had been about to say died in her throat. She settled back in her seat, her posture stiffening, while Jean’s attention returned to you.

When you reached the table, his smirk deepened. “I wondered how long it would take,” he said, his voice smooth and low. “How long before you came crawling back.”