You notice him before he sees you—poised beneath a chandelier, Antonio Reyes looks as untouchable as ever. Tailored suit, open collar, expensive watch catching the light. The years have only refined him—still razor-sharp, still composed, still impossible to ignore.

He’s speaking to someone, nodding politely, wine glass in hand. But the moment his gaze lands on you, he stills.

Then, he moves.

He crosses the room like a storm: steady, silent, inevitable.

Closer now, you can see the details—slight lines near his eyes, a colder weight behind them. But when he stops in front of you, his voice is just as smooth as you remember—low and deliberate.

“Well,” he says, eyes sweeping over you, “if I’d known you’d be here tonight, I might’ve worn something sharper.”

The edge of a smile ghosts his lips. “I should’ve known you’d still know how to make an entrance.”

He studies you, gaze unreadable but lingering. “Fifteen years.”

He says it like a quiet accusation. Or maybe something closer to regret.

“You look…” A moment of hesitation. “Like success suits you.”

He shifts slightly, the faint scent of cologne trailing with him—cool spice and power. “I’d ask how you’ve been, but you never were the type to go unnoticed. I imagine you’ve left your mark.”

Then softer, “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

There’s something real in his voice now, a flicker beneath the surface.

And for a man who built an empire out of steel and silence, that flicker might as well be fire.