Gloria
Of all the disasters I could invite into my life, being drawn to my own teacher ranked highest.
My phone was propped against a stack of skincare bottles on my vanity, Nina's face glowing back at me as I dragged the eyeliner steadily across my lash line. She had her hair tied up in a messy knot, a pen in her hand like she was too restless to sit still even during a video call.
"So," she drawled, twirling the pen, "are we just going to ignore the way Professor Valevsky walked into that classroom yesterday like he owned the place?"
I forced my lips into something between a smile and a grimace. "He's a professor. He's supposed to walk in like he owns the place."
Nina arched a brow, unimpressed. "Don't get smart with me, Vance. That man wasn't teaching—he was watching. And don't even bother lying, I saw you freeze up."
The memories of yesterday flooded my mind. His sculpted face drenched in rain as his hands perfectly cupped my waist before he took me inside the car and drove me home a few blocks farther from my house.
Heat pricked the back of my neck, and I busied myself with smoothing down my dress, pretending her words didn't sting with truth. "You overanalyze everything. Maybe that's why people don't take you seriously."
"Maybe," Nina said, leaning closer to the screen, her grin sly, "Or maybe I notice things. Like the way you don't want to talk about him."
I swallowed and capped my lipstick before answering. "We're supposed to be figuring out what my family is hiding, not whatever strange mood my professor is in."
That earned me a sharp laugh. "Gloria, your family's secrets and Valevsky? I've got a feeling they're the same thing."
I sighed.
"So he just… walked in? Like that?" she asked, eyes narrowing with the kind of suspicion only Nina could pull off.
I adjusted an earring, watching my reflection instead of the screen. "Yes. Like that."
"And the entire class went silent because—hello—he's practically carved from marble. Don't even try to downplay it." She leaned closer to the camera, her grin sharp. "Gloria, he knew you. I could tell by the way you said it."
Heat pricked the back of my neck. I smoothed a wrinkle in my dress, deliberately skipping over the memory of his umbrella tilting over me in the rain, the brush of his shoulder against mine. That detail was mine alone. "You're reaching," I muttered.
"No," Nina shot back, "I'm connecting dots. He's in this. Your family's hiding something—more than what we already know. And if Ilian Valevsky is standing in front of your class, then he's part of it."
Her certainty made my stomach twist. We were in this together now, tangled in the same web, prying at secrets that clawed back when touched.
"Just be careful," she added softly. "He's not just some guy."
The words landed heavier than I wanted them to, and in some ways, I realised Nina was not entirely wrong.
I clicked the call off before she could push further, the screen going black and leaving only my reflection staring back.
When I descended the stairs, voices floated from the living room. My mother's pearls clinked as she adjusted them, her eyes darting toward my father in a rare flicker of unease. Nico leaned against the wall with his arms folded, gaze steady and unreadable until it landed on me. Then the faintest curve of a smile broke through.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded.
***
The ride to the event was too smooth, too quiet, the kind of silence that made me second-guess every breath I took. Nico sat beside me, scrolling through his phone like he was made of stone.
Family events weren't common for us. Usually, we moved through life quietly, keeping distance from the kind of attention that came with public appearances. But tonight felt different and tense, as if everyone knew something I didn't, which was too visible on their faces.
Mom and Dad were in another car as Nico and I sat in another. I clutched the hem of my dress, biting my inner cheeks.
Nico noticed that. "We're not taking you to an execution. Relax."
I sighed. "It's been years since we went into an event like this." My eyes settle on him. "Why did Dad agree to this one?"
His eyes flickered a hint of emotion before he buried it under his smirk. "Maybe we were on our way to see your future husband." He whispered and winked.
"Lord," I looked away, smiling. Thankfully, the air felt less constricted.
When the car finally slowed, my breath caught.
The club towered ahead, a monolith of glass and shadow. Its name glowed in gold above the entrance—Belmont House. Even from the curb, the place reeked of wealth. Black-clad doormen stood at attention, their presence as sharp as blades.
A cathedral of indulgence stretched out before me: vaulted ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers, walls veined with black marble and streaks of gold. Every surface gleamed, polished within an inch of its life. Music pulsed low, threaded with the clink of glasses and the murmur of power brokers dressed to kill.
We came from old money, and I grew up surrounded by wealth, but this was on an entirely different level.
We stepped out, and our parents followed. My mom fell into step beside me, offering a warm, knowing smile. She understood how much I dreaded these gatherings, but with Dad treating them as matters of business and family pride, there was no skipping tonight.
Inside, the main floor unfurled in levels, velvet banquettes coiled around a central dance floor that glittered beneath the light. Above, mezzanine balconies curved like theater boxes, offering views meant for the select few who never had to ask for permission.
I sighed. We will have to go through this silently.
I skimmed the room, letting my gaze drift across clusters of people, their laughter and polite murmurs blending into a dull hum. Every step I took drew a flurry of attention. Compliments, nods, and gestures.
A gentleman in a dark velvet jacket paused beside me. "Gloria, you make London feel small tonight," he said smoothly. I internally cringed but smiled. That was so lame.
I drifted closer to my father, as another man approached, a guest I didn't immediately recognize. My father stiffened. The warmth in his smile froze. That's when I noticed the other man. He was middle-aged, tall, and strikingly severe.
Dark suit, sharp features, eyes that scanned the room like a predator calculating movement and opportunity.
"It's been far too long, Adrian," the man said, voice smooth but firm. His eyes lingered on me, then returned to my father.
"Yes…" My father's tone was clipped. "Time has… moved quickly, hasn't it?"
Something in the room tightened. I could sense the tension, even if I couldn't understand its roots. I brushed the moment off, assuming he was some old rival of my father's.
And then I thought maybe my eyes betrayed me.
Ilian. Standing several meters away, partially obscured by a cluster of guests, but unmistakable. His presence made everything else fade—the polished floors, the chandeliers, even my father's stiff figure beside the mysterious man.
He was impossibly striking, the black suit tailored so perfectly it seemed like it had been made for him alone. But it was his eyes—dark and unyielding—that pinned me in place. They were the same as that day in the schoolyard, the same as when he had appeared in my life without warning.
My body heated unknowingly, and I shifted in my position. I was not imagining him, was I?
The man beside my father shifted, sensing something, and glanced toward Ilian. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment—a recognition of power, maybe of threat.
Ilian's gaze didn't waver. He started walking toward us, cutting through the crowd with an almost predatory grace. Every step pulled the room's attention with him, though no one noticed because my world had shrunk to the space between us.
When he reached me, his hand brushed mine as he guided me slightly closer, his fingers firm yet careful. My pulse spiked, and I was acutely aware of how close his chest was, how the subtle scent of him filled the air. He didn't smile. His presence alone was enough to unbalance me.
"Careful," he said, low and smooth, his voice so near it vibrated through my bones. "Don't drift too far, Liora. Not tonight."
I swallowed at the nickname, eyes locked on his. The man beside my father—the one I assumed to be some business rival—glanced at Ilian, this time with a mix of dread and wariness, and then turned to me.
But I didn't notice. All I could see was Ilian. And all I could feel was the quiet intensity that drew me in. His hands brushed mine again as he put himself between me and Dmitri.