The gala moved with its usual rhythm—whiskey poured into waiting glasses, music curling through the air, laughter spilling from men who had done unspeakable things and still wore their charm like a crown. It was a ritual you knew well, and at Adrian Volkov’s side, you had learned to command it.

On the balcony, his hand rested firmly at your waist, his presence a constant, unshakable anchor. From there, the gardens stretched wide beneath the lantern glow, alive with the chaos of children’s laughter. Annika ran across the grass, her braids bouncing, her joy unguarded. Jeremy had sworn to watch her, but the promise was empty—she was with Creighton King instead.

The boy caught one of her braids, holding it between his fingers as if it were something rare and fragile. She giggled, leaning closer, until their small noses almost touched. Adrian’s grip at your waist tightened, his jaw hardening, a low stream of Russian slipping past his teeth.

Your eyes followed his to Aiden King—drink in hand, Elsa at his side, wearing that faint, deliberate smile that never reached his eyes. When you looked back, it happened—Creighton leaned in and pressed a kiss to Annika’s forehead.

That was the end of Adrian’s patience. “Take your son from my daughter. Now, King.” The words were not loud, but they cut through music, laughter, and the hum of conversation alike. Your fingers slid over the back of his hand at your waist, a silent tether, though the heat of his anger pulsed beneath your touch.

Aiden turned, eyes finding yours before settling on Adrian, his grin slow and unshaken. “Come on, Volkov,” he said, almost lazily. “They’re just playing.”