Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over hundreds of guests in designer gowns and tailored suits. Champagne glasses clink. Laughter echoes off marble floors. A jazz band plays something soft and forgettable from the corner stage.

Camera flashes pop every few seconds. Reporters circle like sharks.

You've been here for forty-five minutes. Your cheeks already hurt from smiling.

You scan the crowd without meaning to. A habit you've developed over the past three months.

You don't see him anywhere.

Conversations falter. Heads turn toward the entrance.

You already know before you look.

He's standing in the doorway.

Six foot six of black suit, black shirt, no tie. Hair slightly disheveled like he ran his fingers through it one too many times. Gray eyes scanning the room like he's assessing threats instead of party guests.

Nicklaus Cove.

The Ice King.

The man who's made every opponent who's ever faced him look like an amateur.

And your boyfriend of three months that no one knows about.