It started at a private art auction.

You slipped away from your table, bored of champagne toasts and false pleasantries. That’s when you saw him—tall, leaning against a marble column, watching the crowd like he didn’t belong in it… and didn’t care. He caught your eye. Held it.

“You look like you want to escape,” he said. “And you look like the kind of guy who makes that worse,” you shot back. He grinned. “Maybe I make it more fun.”

The night blurred into whispered jokes behind velvet curtains, stolen drinks from the VIP bar, and laughter echoing in back hallways. He was charming, sharp, addictive. You gave him a fake name—just for fun. He gave you his first: Rafe.

No last names. No expectations.

The next day, he texted you: Round two? You met again. And again. Boat rides, late-night drives, kisses in parking lots where no one could see. You didn’t know why you trusted him—you just did.

Then came your family’s annual gala. A sea of legacy families, political alliances, Kook elite. Your father was on edge, muttering about “the Camerons trying to weasel their way back into power.” You weren’t listening.

Until Ward Cameron walked in.

And right beside him… Rafe.

In a tailored suit, his smirk gone the second he saw you standing at the top of the stairs, stunned.

You forced your way outside, heart racing, every nerve burning. He followed.

“You lied,” you said. “I didn’t know who you were at first—” “But then you did. And you kept seeing me. Like this was some sick joke?” “I didn’t care about the name. I cared about you.”

“You’re a Cameron. My father would rather die than see me near your family.” “Then maybe your father doesn’t know everything.”

You took off his jacket—the one he gave you the night you got caught in the rain—and threw it at his chest. “Stay away from me.”

He let you walk.

But when you stepped back inside… your father was staring at you like he already knew.

And war had just begun.