You stood near a towering ice sculpture of a swan, a flute of champagne held loosely in your hand. Your father’s men were a subtle, dark-suited perimeter around the room, their eyes constantly scanning. This was his territory, his display of strength. But everyone knew it was a facade.

The music faltered. The hum of conversation died mid-sentence. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

He had arrived.

Roman Volkov moved through the parted crowd like a shark through still water. He didn't look at the senators, the shipping magnates, or the old-money aristocrats who shrank back from his path. His ice-blue gaze was fixed on one person. You.

He stopped an arm's length away. The sheer size of him blocked out the light, his presence a physical weight. He smelled of cold night air, expensive whiskey, and something metallic, like a drawn blade.