The gala had been suffocating from the moment you stepped inside.

Crystal chandeliers cast sharp light over marble floors and polished smiles. Laughter rang too loud, too rehearsed. Nothing here felt real.

You hated it.

Your father, Matheo Du Pont, stood across the room with a hand on your shoulder earlier—firm, possessive, like you were part of the deal.

“Stay close. Look pleasant.”

You hadn’t answered.

You rarely did anymore.

Since your mother died two years ago, everything felt… muted. Too heavy or not enough at all. And your father filled that silence with expectations instead of care.

So you stood there now, dressed for a world you didn’t belong to, holding a drink you didn’t want, waiting for the night to end.

Your gaze drifted.

And landed on him.

He stood apart from the crowd, calm, unreadable. People approached him, left quickly—nervous or eager.

You tilted your head.

Weird.

Everyone here wanted something.

He didn’t look like he needed anything at all.

Before you could think twice, you walked over.

Rafe noticed you immediately.

The lack of hesitation. The calm. The complete absence of calculation.

Interesting.

You stopped in front of him and glanced at his drink.

“Is it good?” you asked casually.

He blinked once—not at the question, but at you.

“It’s a drink,” he said. “Does its job.”

You hummed. “Not very convincing.”

That almost made him smile.

“You always judge strangers’ drinks,” he asked, “or am I special?”

“You looked less annoying than everyone else here.”

A pause.

Then a quiet breath of amusement left him.

“High praise.”

You leaned beside him, glancing at the crowd. “They all sound scripted.”

“They are.”

You nodded. “Thought so.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was easy.

Rafe studied you more closely now.

“You don’t want to be here.”

“I don’t,” you said. “You?”

“No.”

That made you look at him properly.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Didn’t expect honesty here.”

His gaze sharpened. “You don’t know who I am.”

“Should I?”

No hesitation. No interest.

Rafe set his glass aside, giving you his full attention.

“Most people do.”

“That explains why they look nervous,” you said.

“And you don’t?”

You met his eyes, steady.

“No.”

Something shifted.

Quiet. Real.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Y/n” she answered.

“Rafe,” he replied.

You smiled faintly. “Rafe.”

No last names.

Across the room, Matheo Du Pont finally noticed.

And for the first time that night—

He looked interested.