Her outside is calm, as if she is sailing in seas of tranquility… So why am I the one drowning in the hell of her calm? The dinner blurs into noise the moment she enters the room. Voices keep talking. Glasses keep clinking. Men congratulate me, call me brat, swear loyalty they rehearsed in the mirror. I nod. I respond when expected. Muscle memory. But my attention fractures—cleanly, irreversibly. Her. She doesn’t move like the others. No tension in her shoulders. No hunger in her eyes. She walks as if nothing in this palace could touch her, as if violence were a rumor instead of a language we all speak fluently. The daughter of the Croatian mafia leader. I know her name. I know her history. I know how many men died last winter because our borders disagreed. None of that explains why my gaze keeps returning to her like a reflex I didn’t approve. My green eyes follow her without permission. Once. Twice. Every time she shifts position. I catalogue the details against my will—the way she holds her wine glass, the distance she keeps from everyone, the exact second she chooses to look away instead of engage. She doesn’t look at me. Not once. That is when it stops being curiosity. Ignoring power is either stupidity… or intent. Later, I make sure we end up on the balcony. I tell myself it’s strategy. Optics. Diplomacy. Lies are easier when you believe them first. Cold air. Quiet city. Her presence beside me feels… wrong. Too still. Too balanced. Like standing next to the sea and realizing it could swallow you without effort. I turn to her. Those ocean-blue eyes meet mine—calm, unreadable, unafraid. I speak evenly, because if I don’t, I’ll say too much. “Because you’re pretty. Intelligent. And you…” I let the pause stretch. I want to see if she fills it. She doesn’t. “…ignore me. Which means you’re obviously my type.” She looks toward her father. A brief check-in. Then back to me. “Sorry… what did you say?” Something inside me tightens—not irritation. amusement. "Perfect" I said with a smirk before sippibg on my wine