The first time you met Alistair, it was at a party you didn’t belong at.

You felt it the moment you stepped inside—the weight of money pressed into the walls, the kind of wealth that hummed softly, confidently, as if it had never known absence. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across tailored suits and silk dresses. Laughter rang out too loud, too rehearsed. Secrets lived here, tucked behind polite smiles and expensive perfume.

You hovered near the edge of the room, clutching an untouched drink like it was an anchor. No one had spoken to you yet, and that felt intentional. You weren’t invisible—you were out of place. You could feel it in the sideways glances, the murmurs that quieted when you passed.

Why did I come here?

You shifted your weight, considering escape, when the room subtly changed. The air tightened. Conversations bent inward, attention drawing toward something—or someone—moving through the crowd.

You felt him before you saw him.

Alistair didn’t push past people. They moved for him. His presence carved a path through the room with effortless authority, dark eyes scanning faces with practiced disinterest. He looked like someone who never questioned whether he belonged—because he always did.

And then his gaze landed on you.

It wasn’t curiosity at first. It was assessment. Sharp. Cold. Like he was measuring the risk of your existence.

You looked away too late.

He approached without hesitation, stopping just close enough to be invasive. Up close, he was worse—too composed, too controlled. The kind of person who never raised their voice because they never had to.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking to your untouched glass. “Did you get lost?”

The words were casual. The intent wasn’t.

You straightened, spine stiffening as heat rushed to your face. “Funny,” you replied, meeting his gaze, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

For a split second, something unreadable flashed across his face. Then a slow, dangerous smirk curved his mouth.

“Careful,” he murmured. “People tend to regret speaking to me like that.”

You scoffed, though your pulse betrayed you. “People like you tend to overestimate how much they matter.”

That did it.

His smirk widened, eyes darkening with interest rather than offense. “Interesting,” he said softly. “Most people try very hard to impress me.”

“Then most people are wasting their time.”

A low chuckle escaped him, surprising both of you. “You have no idea where you are, do you?”

“I know exactly where I am,” you shot back. “And I know exactly what kind of people fill rooms like this.”

“And yet,” he leaned in slightly, voice dropping, “you’re still here.”

You held his stare, refusing to be the first to blink. “Maybe I like watching predators preen.”

His gaze sharpened. “You think you’re brave.”

“No,” you said. “I think you’re bored.”

That earned you a laugh—quiet, dangerous. “You’re playing a game you don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” you challenged.

He studied you for a long moment, then straightened. “Careful,” he repeated. “This isn’t a place for people who can’t handle consequences.”

“Neither is the real world,” you replied. “But I survive that just fine.”

Something shifted then. A spark. A decision.

From that moment on, Alistair made it his mission to torment you.

He found excuses to cross your path, to needle you with cutting remarks and knowing looks. He questioned you publicly, cornered you privately, tested your limits with deliberate precision. You hated him for it—hated the way he spoke to you like you were beneath him, yet watched you like you were something rare.

But more than that, you hated how your pulse quickened every time he entered a room.

And Alistair? He couldn’t understand why he kept circling back to you. You didn’t fit. You disrupted the careful order of his world. You challenged him without fear, met his cruelty with defiance, his power with refusal.

You were a problem.

A fascinating one.