The chandeliers of the Waldorf Grand glittered like frozen stars, casting their light over silk gowns, champagne flutes, and the carefully curated smiles of New York's elite. Elena Moretti's heels clicked softly against the marble as she stepped into the gala, every movement rehearsed, every breath measured. Seven years ago, she had been cast out of this world. Tonight, she returned—not as the disgraced daughter of a ruined family, but as a woman sharpened by loss, driven by vengeance.
And standing at the center of it all, like a king surveying his court, was Adrian Rothwell.
Her chest tightened at the sight of him. Taller than memory, darker in presence, his tailored suit sculpted to a body that exuded authority. Conversations shifted around him like currents; people angled to catch his gaze, to win a fraction of his approval. Elena knew the truth: behind that controlled smile was the man who had destroyed her father, the man who had broken her family into dust.
Her nails pressed into her clutch. Smile, Elena. Breathe. Tonight isn't about hate—it's about winning.
She crossed the ballroom with the grace of a predator cloaked in silk. Heads turned; whispers followed. No one recognized her yet. That anonymity was her weapon. She could feel Adrian's gaze sweep over the room, pausing—lingering—before locking on her.
It was like being set on fire.
Elena forced herself not to falter as his eyes narrowed, curiosity flashing across his features. In that moment, he didn't see the broken girl he had ruined. He saw a woman he couldn't place, and that gave her power.
When he moved toward her, the crowd parted instinctively, as though sensing the gravity of his presence. He stopped just close enough for her to breathe in the subtle scent of his cologne—dark, expensive, commanding.
"You're new," he said, voice low, smooth, threaded with authority. "And I never forget a face."
Elena tilted her chin, letting a faint smile curve her lips. Play the game.
"Maybe you've forgotten this one," she said softly, her tone laced with challenge.
His eyes darkened, scanning her face with unnerving intensity. For a heartbeat, she feared recognition, feared he would see through the mask she'd so carefully crafted. But instead, his mouth curved into the faintest smirk.
"Impossible."
The air between them tightened, a current of unspoken tension pulling her closer even as every cell in her body screamed to push him away. She hated the way her pulse quickened, hated the memory of how easily he had destroyed everything she loved. But her revenge would be sweeter if he desired her without knowing who she was.
"Then perhaps I'll let you try to remember," Elena replied, taking a slow sip of champagne. Her hand didn't tremble.
Adrian studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering too long at her mouth before he said, "You're bold. I like that. Most women here trip over themselves to impress me."
"Then you must be terribly bored," she said coolly.
His smirk deepened, and something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Not anymore."
The words slid under her skin like poison and honey. She needed to control this. She needed to remind herself why she was here: not to flirt, not to be seen, but to destroy him piece by piece. Still, she couldn't stop the spark of satisfaction that lit her chest when his attention didn't waver.
"Elena," she introduced herself finally, her voice calm, offering him the name stripped of its infamous surname.
He extended his hand. "Adrian."
She let her fingers brush his just enough to feel the heat of his skin. Electricity snapped through her like a whip. His grip was strong, but his eyes—those calculating, storm-colored eyes—were stronger. She withdrew before he could read too much.
"Welcome to my world, Elena," Adrian said, voice quiet but edged. "Be careful. It can be dangerous."
I know, she thought. You made it that way.
Her smile didn't falter. "I don't scare easily."
Something in his expression shifted, as if her words intrigued him more than they should. Before he could probe further, someone called his name from across the room. He gave her one last look—a look that promised their conversation was far from over—before he turned away.
Elena's breath shuddered out as soon as his back was turned. Her skin still buzzed from his nearness, from the sharp edge of his attention. She wanted to hate him, to bury every ounce of attraction beneath her rage. But she knew the truth: revenge would be far more dangerous if her heart betrayed her.
She tipped her champagne glass toward his retreating figure, her lips curling into the faintest smile.
"Game on," she whispered.