Ethan hated these gatherings. He had hated them before Isabella, before the betrayal, before Adrian Gray became more than just a rival. Now, standing in a grand hall lined with wine glasses and shallow conversations, he felt like a man walking into enemy territory unarmed.
Mark had insisted he attend again — "Visibility matters, Ethan. This competition is war, and you don't win wars by hiding."
War. Mark had no idea how accurate that word had become.
Ethan spotted Adrian across the room almost instantly. He was hard to miss — surrounded by admirers, laughing too loudly, his hand resting lightly on Isabella's back as though she were an extension of himself. Isabella looked perfect again: polished, poised, her mask flawless. She didn't glance Ethan's way once.
He tried to avoid them, slipping toward the corner where the less important guests lingered. But before long, Adrian peeled away from his crowd and drifted toward him, glass in hand, his smile sharp and easy.
"Ethan," Adrian said warmly, too warmly. "We haven't spoken in ages."
Ethan forced a nod. "Adrian."
Up close, Adrian was taller than Ethan remembered, his presence filling the space like a performance. His voice carried the practiced confidence of a man who had never once doubted his place in a room.
"I've been meaning to tell you," Adrian continued, swirling his wine lazily, "I read your latest piece. Or… parts of it. Mark slipped me a preview." He smiled, thin and deliberate. "You've grown. Rough around the edges, but there's… potential."
Ethan stiffened. "Glad to hear it."
Adrian tilted his head, studying him. "You always were the tortured sort, weren't you? Bleeding into your work, fighting invisible battles. It's… admirable, in its own way. Though exhausting, I imagine."
"Better than pretending," Ethan said before he could stop himself.
Adrian's smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened. "Touché."
A silence stretched. Around them, people laughed, glasses clinked, conversations hummed — but Ethan felt as though the entire room had emptied, leaving only the two of them locked in an invisible duel.
Adrian leaned a little closer. "You know, the funny thing about this industry is that it's not really about talent. It's about endurance. Who can keep their mask on the longest. Who can charm, persuade, outlast. The writing is almost secondary."
Ethan swallowed, his pulse quickening. The word mask landed like a strike. Did Adrian know? Was this all a game?
"And you," Adrian went on smoothly, "you've always had a… intensity. But intensity burns fast. If you're not careful, it destroys you." His smile widened, sharp as glass. "Or the people around you."
Ethan's throat went dry. There was no question now — Adrian wasn't speaking about literature anymore.
"Is there a point to this?" Ethan asked, his voice low.
Adrian chuckled, taking a sip of wine. "Only that life is full of… temptations. Detours. Distractions that can ruin a man if he lets them. I'd hate to see you throw away what little promise you have chasing something that isn't yours to take."
Their eyes locked. The words weren't loud, but they landed heavier than any shouted threat. Adrian's tone never wavered — smooth, polite, even charming — but underneath was iron.
Finally, Adrian clapped him lightly on the shoulder, as though the conversation had been nothing more than friendly advice. "Anyway. Best of luck in the competition. May the best man win."
He walked away without looking back, rejoining the crowd effortlessly, his hand sliding once again around Isabella's waist.
Ethan stood rooted in place, his heart pounding, his palms damp. The room spun with chatter and laughter, but all he heard were Adrian's words, echoing with poisonous clarity.
I'd hate to see you throw away what little promise you have chasing something that isn't yours to take.
It wasn't a warning. It was a trap — a reminder that Adrian saw everything, knew everything, and could crush him with a smile.
Ethan realized then that this wasn't just a rivalry anymore. It was war.