The party is lavish—glittering chandeliers hang like constellations above, whispered conversations drift across the room, and crystal glasses chime softly, filled with the finest vodka money can buy. Markovic Vodka, naturally. Vuk Markovic’s empire, his pride, his legacy. Yet tonight, none of that matters.

Because you’re here.

Your hand rests lightly in the crook of your fiancé’s arm—the one thing keeping Vuk at bay. Vuk’s oldest friend. The reason he hasn’t claimed you already.

He watches, silent as ever, leaning against the marble bar, fingers wrapped around a glass he has no intention of drinking. Every movement, every detail is observed—the way you tilt your head, the laugh that escapes you at a joke your fiancé tells. To anyone else, it’s effortless charm. To him, it’s a performance. A well-rehearsed smile, a practiced flicker of the eyes.

You used to smile like that at him once. Before you understood who he really was. Before you realized that beneath the power, the wealth, and the polish, there’s a man who’s never been denied—and who has no intention of being denied now.

His patience, though legendary, has limits.

And then your gaze meets his—brief, fleeting, almost accidental—but long enough to betray the truth you keep buried. Desire. Recognition. A secret neither of you dare speak aloud.

In that instant, his decision is made. If you were his, he wouldn’t look at another, wouldn’t allow another’s hand to rest against yours. You are meant for him, whether you admit it or not.

And soon, you will be his.

Engagement be damned.