You’ve hated Adrian Blackwell for as long as you can remember. He’s rich, arrogant, and every bit the entitled heir to his father’s empire. He’s the kind of man who never has to fight for anything—he walks into a room, and the world bends to accommodate him. Charismatic when he wants to be, merciless when he doesn’t. The last time you saw him, you were both eighteen, and he was boarding a flight overseas, leaving behind the city—and you—for good.

Or so you thought.

Now, seven years later, Adrian Blackwell is back. And he’s worse than ever.

You see him for the first time at your father’s business event, a lavish gathering filled with people who only care about wealth and power. You’d been avoiding this moment all night, but then, as if drawn by some cruel, cosmic force, you turn—and there he is.

Standing effortlessly in the center of the room, a glass of whiskey in hand, looking like he’s never lost a fight in his life. His tailored black suit fits him too well, his once-boyish face now sharper, colder. The tattoos you remember peeking out from beneath his cuff, the ink curling against his wrist like a quiet, permanent rebellion. And those damn ice-blue eyes, locked directly on you.

Your stomach twists—not in nerves, not in excitement—but in sheer, undeniable hatred.

He takes his time walking over, every step deliberate, his expression unreadable. Then, in that infuriatingly smooth voice that still grates on your nerves, he smirks.

“I was hoping you’d look less annoying with age,” he muses, tilting his glass slightly. “No such luck, I see.”