The air in the gala was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and quiet ambition. Evelyn, playing the part of Nyx, moved through it all with a placid grace that was a perfect lie, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She was a hunter in her own hunting grounds, and she knew the alpha predator was on his way.
She was accepting her award on stage, her speech brief, eloquent, and impersonal, when she felt it. A shift in the room's energy. A sudden focusing of attention so powerful it was almost a physical touch. Her eyes, sweeping the audience, met his.
Alexander Sterling stood near the back of the room, a pillar of dark, imposing power in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. He wasn't looking at the stage; he was looking at her. His gaze was not one of admiration, but of intense, analytical scrutiny, as if he were trying to solve a complex equation. For a terrifying second, her composure faltered. Her carefully constructed walls threatened to crumble under the sheer force of his presence. She finished her speech, her voice never wavering, and descended the stage into a sea of polite applause.
She tried to lose herself in the crowd, but it was useless. A man like Alexander didn't move through a room; the room reoriented itself around him. Ten minutes later, as she was examining a modern art installation, he was simply… there.
"Nyx," he said. Her pen name, spoken in his voice, sounded both like a caress and a summons. "A pleasure to finally put a face to the words."
She turned slowly, schooling her features into a mask of cool neutrality. "Mr. Sterling. I'm surprised a man of your… interests would find time for literature."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "My interests are varied. I'm drawn to power, in all its forms. Your writing has it. A certain… ruthless quality."
"I write what I know," she replied, her voice smooth as silk.
The tension between them was a living thing, a crackling, invisible field. He was closer now, close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne, a clean, expensive scent that sent a treacherous jolt of memory through her. Her heart hammered, but she held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. This was the test.
"Indeed," he murmured, his eyes roaming her face, searching. "There is a familiarity about you. I feel as though we've met."
"I doubt it, Mr. Sterling," she said, her tone dismissive. "I would have remembered."
I remember every second, her mind screamed.
Just then, a waiter passed with a tray of champagne. As Alexander reached for a glass, his knuckles brushed against the back of her hand.
It was nothing. A fleeting, accidental touch.
But for both of them, it was like a lightning strike.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity, identical to the one she'd felt five years ago when she had crashed her lips against his. She flinched, an involuntary recoil she couldn't suppress.
And he felt it too.
His head snapped up, his eyes locking onto hers. The casual curiosity was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp, and dawning suspicion. He stared at her, really stared at her, his gaze narrowing as if trying to strip away the elegant gown, the sophisticated hairstyle, the mask of a stranger, to see the face he had hunted in his dreams for half a decade.
The air grew thick, charged with five years of unanswered questions and simmering rage. The noise of the gala faded into a dull roar. There was only the two of them, locked in a silent battle of wills.
His voice, when he spoke again, was low and dangerous, each word laden with a weight she felt in her very bones.
"Tell me, Nyx," he began, his stormy eyes never leaving hers, a predator that had finally, finally caught the scent of its long-lost prey. "What's your real name?"Very well. The confrontation has happened. Now, the game truly begins. This is where the battle of wits between our two protagonists ignites, setting the stage for the explosive revelations to come.