The ballroom of the Hôtel de Montclair glittered that night—crystal chandeliers scattering light like fragments of stars, laughter echoing against frescoed ceilings, champagne flutes clinking in an endless chorus of false joy.

Claire de Montfort stood slightly apart, near the marble balcony doors, her champagne glass untouched in her hand. She knew how to play the role—the elegant daughter of a political titan, poised, polite, unshaken. Tonight, like every night, people approached her with smiles too rehearsed, questions too polished. None of them saw her. They only saw his daughter.

She sipped, eyes wandering, tired of the glittering parade—until they landed on him.

He didn’t belong here. That much was clear.

While the men around her wore polished tuxedos and carried themselves with the ease of old money, he leaned against the tall French window as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Dark suit, perfectly cut but understated, no trace of extravagance. His hair fell in slightly tousled strands, and when the light caught him, she noticed his eyes—sharp, brooding, the kind that measured people instead of entertaining them.

His aura was dangerous. Not the performative arrogance of the spoiled heirs, but something heavier. Real. Lived. The kind of danger no one here would dare name.

And Claire felt it instantly—that pull she had buried in herself for years. She had always craved the dark against the light, the wolf among the lambs. The bad news gentleman who could make her forget the suffocating politeness of her world. The forbidden.

Their eyes met across the room. Just for a second. But long enough. Her chest tightened. Her lips curved, barely—an almost-smile, unbidden.