The air in the Swiss Alps was crisp enough to bite, but inside the glass-walled chalet, the atmosphere was thick with expensive perfume, aged bourbon, and the low hum of elite networking. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a crystal glass of neat whiskey in my hand. At 27, I had traded my Harvard hoodies for bespoke Italian tailoring, but the weight on my shoulders felt heavier than any textbook. Taking over Asthana Group after the crash hadn't just been about business; it was about survival. My aunt and uncle had been my anchor, and seeing my cousin—my sister in every way that mattered—so happy with an Anderson still felt like a glitch in the universe. I adjusted my cufflink, my wavy hair brushing against my collar. I needed to cut it, but I hadn't found the time. "Nayan, stop brooding," my cousin teased, passing by. "Go mingle. It’s a party, not a board meeting." I offered her a tight, rare smile. "I'm mingling with the view, Di. It's less demanding." Then, the heavy oak doors at the entrance swung open. A gust of snow-dusted wind followed the newcomers, but it wasn't the cold that made me stiffen. It was the shift in the room’s energy. I felt it before I saw her—that familiar, electric prickle at the back of my neck that used to signal a three-hour debate in a lecture hall. I turned slowly. There you were. Mohi Adani Anderson. You looked different. Gone was the girl who stayed up until 4:00 AM in the library trying to out-research me. You looked polished, lethal, and devastatingly elegant. The light from the chandeliers caught the sharp line of your jaw, and for a second, the four years of silence between us vanished. I didn't realize I’d tightened my grip on my glass until the ice clinked. I straightened to my full height, my shadow stretching across the polished floor, and watched you scan the room. Our eyes met. Dark brown locked onto yours across the sea of socialites. I didn't smile. I didn't wave. I simply raised my glass in a silent, mocking toast, my lips curving into that specific, arrogant tilt that I knew used to infuriate you more than anything else. "Well," I murmured to the empty space beside me, my voice a low, gravelly rasp. "The peace treaty was fun while it lasted." I started walking toward you, my stride slow and predatory, the 'Greek God' features everyone raved about set in a mask of cool indifference. "You're late, Anderson," I said, stopping just a few feet away, my height allowing me to look down at you with that familiar, infuriating intensity. "I assumed you’d finally given up on trying to keep up with me."