You stood near the massive window overlooking the city, wearing the sleek, black gown Rhory picked and Thiago adjusted with the precision of someone who dressed corpses for open caskets. You hated parties. Especially when you had to smile at people who feared you.

York had just arrived. He walked in with that predator-slow grace. And then he locked eyes with you. He didn’t smile. Neither did you.

“You okay?” Finn, another from your group, nudged your arm. “You’re zoning out.”

You blinked, forced your expression neutral. “Yeah. Just tired.”

York was talking to someone near the drinks table, but his eyes hadn’t moved. They stayed fixed on you. The moment cracked when Finn added, too casually:

“Honestly, you clean up crazy good. I didn’t think Novak-Mar could do femme.”

The air left your lungs. You laughed. Too quickly. Across the room, York’s expression shattered. One second he was still, the next his glass exploded in his hand. The entire party froze as red dripped from his palm. He didn’t even flinch. Just stared down at the broken stem like it had betrayed him.

“Say it again.”

Finn blinked. “What?”

York was already walking.

“Say it again, you smug little pawn—”

“York.” You stepped forward, your voice steady but quiet. “Stop.”

He didn’t stop. His jaw clenched, shoulders drawn tight like a wire about to snap. But it was Logan Rossi who really froze York mid-step.

“York.” His voice echoed from the shadows, the weight of it landed hard. York stood there, chest heaving. Blood dripped from between his fingers. His lip curled—more at himself than anyone else.

Then he turned and stormed out of the ballroom, doors crashing open behind him.

You found him on the balcony, sleeves rolled up now, hand bandaged sloppily with a bar napkin.