Three Years Ago —
The sky above the city was bruised in velvet — a bleeding dusk fading into ink. Below, the Grand Viremont Hotel stood dressed in gold and glass, its ballroom pulsing with wealth. Outside, cars lined up like prized animals, and inside, legacy dripped from every chandelier.
The gala was invitation-only, of course. A celebration of power dressed as philanthropy — men in tailored suits raising glasses to causes they didn't believe in, women in designer gowns laughing through red-stained teeth, and heirs shaking hands with people they'd never call again.
Cassian Drevault stood alone near the edge of it all, bored in his silence. He hated nights like this. The glitter, the lies, the eyes that tried to weigh him like gold on a scale.
He had been raised among wolves and expected to lead them.
The black suit he wore cost more than some of the guests' cars. His name carried weight — not the pleasant kind, but the kind that crushed people. And he wore it like a noose disguised as a crown.
Then it happened.
A collision — sharp and accidental.
She hit his chest like a wave breaking against a stone.
A wine glass fell.
The stem snapped in her hand.
And burgundy bled down his front like something out of a murder scene.
> "Shit—oh my God—I'm so sorry—!"
Her voice wasn't the delicate, trained kind these rooms usually hosted. It cracked. Raw. Unrehearsed. Her hands fluttered in panic, trying to mop up the mess with shaking fingers. Napkins from a passing tray, clumsy dabs at his chest, eyes wide like a hunted animal.
He reached out and caught her wrist — not hard, but firm enough to still her.
Warm skin. Small bones. A pulse he could feel.
> "Stop."
She froze. Their eyes met.
That was the moment everything changed.
She wasn't like the others. She had no mask. No practiced grin. Her skin glowed with embarrassment, and her gaze screamed apology. Her dress — red satin, clearly borrowed, slightly wrinkled — clung to her frame like desperation stitched it.
She didn't belong here.
And yet…
Cassian's gaze dragged over her face like a storm over fragile ground. He didn't speak. Didn't smile. He just stared — and her breath caught like it had nowhere else to go.
> "I—I'll pay for it," she whispered, eyes flickering to the ruined suit.
> "It's fine," he replied, voice low.
But it wasn't.
And then his father's voice sliced through the air like a blade.
> "Is this the future of Drevault? Humiliated by waitresses in borrowed gowns?"
The insult struck. Not because of what was said, but because of what was implied — his father didn't even see her. He saw weakness. An opening. A son who stood frozen while a stranger made him feel something.
Ziva — she flinched at the words, thinking they were for her. She stepped back, shrinking into herself. The light in her eyes dimmed a little. She bowed slightly, like she owed them something.
> "I'm sorry," she said again, backing away. "I really didn't mean— I'll go."
And she did.
She turned.
And walked back into the crowd like a ghost disappearing into fog.
She never looked back.
But Cassian did.
Every second that followed. Every night that passed. Every quiet moment that begged for noise — he remembered her. Not because of the wine, or the mess, or the embarrassment…
But because something in him shifted when she touched him.
And that shift never stopped.
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