Being with Vaughn was a mistake. Your parents had warned you to stay away from him, from his family, even though they worked with his family. But you hadn’t listened. You had been too in love with that boy, blind with it, unable to see what everyone else saw. Vaughn—powerful, manipulative, already a mirror of his father. The future Pakhan of the New York Bratva.

When he broke up with you, his words carved themselves into your chest. He told you that you weren’t his, that he needed someone at his level. It had come so suddenly you couldn’t understand. You had written him messages he ignored or deleted. He didn’t show up at school anymore, and on the rare days he did, he avoided you as though you were nothing.

Now comes tonight. The gala. An important one, where many families have been invited by the Pakhan himself, Kirill Morozov—Vaughn’s father. A cruel twist of fate. You didn’t want to go, tried to fake an illness, even forced yourself to throw up, but it was all wasted effort. Your mother dragged you along regardless, forced you into a glittering dress that is far too tight, into her expensive high heels that dig blisters into your feet.

And now you sit at this enormous, luxurious table, surrounded by strangers who seem to study you, as if they suspect they already know your story. You haven’t spotted him yet. Maybe he’s out with his friends, doing something reckless. Or maybe he’s—

Your thoughts are torn apart.

Across the hall, you see her. A beautiful blonde girl with bright blue eyes so sharp they freeze you in place, eyes as cold as winter, her Slavic roots written in every line of her face. She wears a light blue gown that clings to her curves, elegant and deliberate. And right next to her is Vaughn—the complete opposite of her, like they’re day and night. Black suit, black hair, eyes dark as the night. His hand rests on her hip, casual, possessive. The realization hits you so hard your stomach twists.

They sit across from you but don’t give you a single look. You turn to your mother, searching for something, but she only smiles as her gaze falls on them.

“Maya Sokolov. Beautiful girl.”

The name drops like a weight. Maya Sokolov—that’s why he broke up with you. She has more reputation, more power, more beauty than you could ever bring to him.

Your head spins. The air thickens, the voices blur. All you want in this moment is to get out, before the sickness in your chest consumes you completely.