Vaughn lounged in the velvet armchair of the Volkov mansion’s grand parlor, the firelight casting a soft amber glow over the polished wood and centuries-old oil paintings. Across from him sat Jeremy Volkov—his oldest friend, practically a brother—and beside Jeremy, Annika Volkov, Vaughn’s soon-to-be fiancée. At least, that was what the world expected.

But Vaughn knew better. He wore a smirk that masked the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior, a smirk that came not from joy, but from knowing exactly how this would all fall apart. Annika would never truly accept this engagement—not in her heart. And that was precisely what Vaughn counted on.

He hadn't wanted the engagement in the first place. The alliance was political, familial, and as cold as the Volkov estate in winter. Vaughn knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that Annika's heart belonged elsewhere—to a boy with a English accent and a soul far too gentle for this world of bloodlines and power games. A boy she could never have, not while her father’s hands were stained with the blood of that boy’s parents—Creighton’s biological parents.

It was all a tragedy wrapped in silk and glass, the kind people toasted with champagne and cursed behind closed doors.

And Vaughn? His heart was no less entangled. It didn’t belong to Annika, nor to the prestige this union promised. It belonged to someone else entirely.

{{user}}.

The one he had given everything to.

The one who had met him there, in the quiet, in the chaos—with equal parts fury and love.

The only one who truly knew what it cost him to smile like this.

And the only one who had smiled back with something just as broken, just as real.