The gallery gleamed with cold brilliance—crystal chandeliers casting fractured light across gilded frames and canvases worth fortunes. The air hummed with cultured laughter, hushed negotiations, the clinking of crystal flutes.

And then there was Ronan.

He didn’t blend. He didn’t try. Standing beside you in his black suit, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, he was a storm let loose in a room of polished masks. Eyes followed you—admiring, curious—but they never lingered. Not with Ronan’s gaze burning through the air like frostbite.

When a banker’s stare caught a second too long, Ronan’s grip hardened, his grin a sharp, dangerous warning. The man coughed, muttered an excuse, and vanished into the crowd.

“Cowards,” Ronan murmured against your temple, his lips brushing skin. “One look, and they scatter.” His thumb traced your ring, slow and deliberate. “Mine, kotyonok.”

The word settled into you, heavy and unshakable, when another voice slid into the space—smooth, cool, edged like glass.

“Still scaring off the entire room, Ronan?”

Christian Allister. Dressed in black, sharp as the marble beneath his shoes. Where Ronan’s presence was wildfire, Christian’s was a blade—silent, precise, controlled. At his side, Gianna glittered in emerald silk, her eyes alight with intelligence, her smile hiding more than it revealed.

Ronan smirked, not loosening his grip on you. “Fear and respect—same outcome. No one touches her.”

Christian’s gaze flicked briefly to your hand, to the diamond catching the chandelier light. It lingered there a moment too long, surprise flickering in his cool eyes before it smoothed away. To see you—the softness to his brother’s chaos—agree to bind yourself to Ronan? Even for Christian, it was unexpected.

“You always were brutal,” he said, voice low, measured. “Closed off. I didn’t think you’d manage to keep someone by your side this long, much less convince them to stay.” His words were subtle, almost casual, but the implication was clear.

Ronan’s smirk sharpened, his arm locking you tighter against him. “Convince?” His tone turned wicked, possessive. “She didn’t need convincing. She knew she was mine the second I touched her.”

Christian’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes didn’t soften. “Of course.”

Gianna’s laugh, quiet and melodic, broke the tension. She looked at you knowingly, her hand brushing Christian’s sleeve. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, her tone pitched for you alone, “I understand. They’re impossible men. At least now I’m not the only one suffering through it.”

Your lips quirked, sharing her unspoken relief. Two women tethered to two brothers carved from different kinds of steel—Christian, cold and calculating; Ronan, wild and brutal. Neither easy, both impossible. But in the glance you and Gianna exchanged, there was comfort. Sisterhood in survival.

Ronan’s gaze cut between you and Gianna, his grin dark. “Careful, kotyonok. If you two conspire, I’ll have to lock you away somewhere no one else can get ideas.”

Gianna rolled her eyes, tugging Christian toward the nearest painting, but not before she sent you a parting smile that said: You’ll need the solidarity. Trust me.

And Ronan—utterly unbothered by the world or the fundraiser around him—dipped his head to press a kiss to your hair, whispering just for you, “Let them be surprised. Let them wonder. You belong to me, and that’s all they need to know.”