SOFIA
Charity events are basically costume parties for rich people. Only instead of masks, everyone wears their most convincing "I care" smile. Until the cameras turn off, that is.
If life had a "skip intro" button, I'd be pounding it right now. But it doesn't.
Instead, I'm standing in front of my mirror wearing a dress I can't afford, wrestling my hair into something less "feral raccoon after a thunderstorm" and more "vaguely human." My mother would call it "putting myself together." I call it "slowly surrendering my dignity to a zipper."
Why am I doing this? Because apparently, when your family is circling the financial drain, the best thing you can do is show up at a charity gala and smile like you're not wearing shoes that feel like medieval torture devices.
I don't belong here.
But try telling that to my mother. According to her, tonight is "important." The kind of vague, ominous word parents use when they're about to ruin your evening.
So here I am, stuffed into a gown that cost more than my rent, walking into a ballroom that looks like it was designed by someone who thought "subtle" was a disease. The chandeliers glitter like they're auditioning for a diamond commercial, champagne flows like tap water, and somewhere in the corner, a string quartet is trying their hardest to make "Canon in D" sound fresh. (Spoiler: it doesn't.)
The carpet is so plush it feels like walking on the belly of a very expensive cat. I weave through clusters of people discussing hedge funds and vacation homes the way normal humans discuss weather. Every other sentence is "quarterly returns" or "we summer in Tuscany." I'm one toothpick away from stabbing myself with an hors d'oeuvre skewer just to feel something.
"Smile, darling," Mom hisses when I roll my eyes one too many times. Her hand clamps onto my elbow like I'm a runaway balloon. "There are important people here."
Important. There's that word again.
Dad's already scanning the room like a hunter, eyes darting to anyone with deep pockets and shallow mercy. He's more relaxed than he was this morning hunched over spreadsheets, but I can see the stiffness in his shoulders. Every laugh is a fraction too loud, every handshake just a touch too desperate.
Me? I'm calculating the fastest route to the open bar.
But before I can bolt, I get intercepted.
A woman in pearls and a dress that probably has its own bank account steps directly into my path. She looks me up and down like I'm the evening's entertainment.
"And who might you be?" she asks, her voice sweet in the way artificial sweeteners are—strangely sharp, leaving a bitter aftertaste.
"Sofia," I say, polite but flat.
Her smile tightens. "Ah. The daughter."
There's a pause, weighted, as if she's flipping through a mental Rolodex of gossip and slotting me somewhere between "useless" and "charity case."
I fight the urge to snort. "That's me. Born and raised."
She hums, clearly unimpressed, then drifts away in search of shinier prey.
Mom leans closer, whispering through clenched teeth, "Could you at least try?"
"Try what? Pretending I like being condescended to by women who smell like dry-cleaning fluid?"
Her sigh is sharp enough to cut glass, but before she can retort, something shifts.
It's subtle at first. The air in the ballroom thickens. Conversations stumble. Heads tilt in unison toward the entrance, like the room itself is bowing.
I glance over my shoulder.
And I see him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A presence that doesn't just walk into a room—it rearranges it. His suit fits like it was poured onto him, every line sharp enough to draw blood. He moves with that particular ease of someone who knows everyone is watching, and knows they'll keep watching whether they want to or not.
People angle themselves toward him without realizing it. Orbiting him like he's their personal sun.
I don't need an introduction. You can feel it. He's important in the way storms are important—you notice him whether you want to or not.
And then there are his eyes. Cold. Calculating. The kind of gaze that makes your spine straighten without your permission.
I should look away. But my brain, in its infinite wisdom, decides to hold his stare instead. Like playing chicken with a hurricane.
My chest tightens. My mouth goes dry.
"Sofia," Mom whispers, elbowing me so hard I nearly drop my champagne flute. "Behave yourself. That's Adrian Vale."
Oh.
The name lands like a punch to the ribs. The same name whispered in office gossip. The same name that showed up in my nightmares last night.
Now he's real. Very real. And heading this way.
"Adrian," Dad says smoothly, like the two of them are old friends instead of… whatever they actually are. "I'd like you to meet my daughter, Sofia."
And just like that, Adrian Vale's gaze cuts to me.
It's sharp. Direct. Unforgiving. The kind of look that makes you feel like your secrets are written across your skin in permanent marker.
I didn't want to be here before, but right now? I really, really don't want to be anywhere near him.
It's like standing in front of a firing squad, not sure if the bullets are insults, indifference, or something worse.
My stomach flips, but I summon my most reliable weapon: sarcasm.
"Hi," I say, smile tilted, voice pitched just enough to hide the fact that my pulse is doing gymnastics. "Relax. I'm not one of the people trying to impress you tonight."
For the first time, something flickers in his eyes. Not amusement. Not irritation. Just… interest.
He doesn't answer right away. He just studies me, long enough to make the back of my neck prickle. Like I'm an equation he's already solved, but he wants to see if I'll realize it too.
The silence stretches, heavy enough to press against my skin. I have the sudden, ridiculous urge to fidget. I don't. If he wants me uncomfortable, he'll have to work harder.
Finally, his mouth curves. Not a smile—nothing so warm. Something sharper.
"Good," he says, his voice smooth and cold. "I don't tolerate wasted effort."
My pulse stutters, though I refuse to show it. Everyone else might bow and scrape for his approval, but I'll be damned if Adrian Vale knows he makes my stomach twist.
So I tip my glass toward him like a toast to some private joke only I get.
"Then we'll get along just fine," I say.
For a beat, the noise of the ballroom seems to fade. He doesn't smile. But his gaze lingers, steady, deliberate, like he's decided I'm worth a closer look.
And that's the worst part.
Because standing there, champagne burning in my throat, I can't shake the feeling that I've just stepped into a game I don't know the rules of.
And Adrian Vale? He's already winning.