Camille Devile hated being summoned.
Not because anyone could force her physically. That had never been possible, not since training, not since discipline had carved control into her bones. But obligation was a different kind of restraint. It came dressed in silk invitations and polite wording that masked expectation.
The Devile estate shimmered with excess.
Crystal chandeliers hung from ceilings so high they swallowed sound. Every surface gleamed. Guests walked around with designer outfits and fake smiles. Conversations flowed in soft, practiced tones, laughter measured, gestures rehearsed. It was a performance. It always had been.
Camille stood near the edge of the room with a glass of champagne she had no intention of drinking. Her posture was flawless. Her expression was neutral. Inside, she was counting seconds.
She checked her watch.
Too early to leave.
She checked her phone.
Still nothing.
A sigh escaped her before she could stop it.
Her presence tonight was mandatory. Her mother's assistant had made that clear. Important guests. Strategic appearances. Family image. The usual excuses.
As if Camille had ever been considered part of that image.
She scanned the room out of instinct. She always did. Her eyes mapped exits, security positions, crowd flow, blind corners. The habit had been trained into her long before she could remember a time without it. Even on break, her mind did not shut down. It only adapted.
She was not on assignment tonight.
That did not mean she felt unarmed.
"Camille."
Her shoulders stiffened before she turned.
Her brother stood a few feet away, impeccably dressed, glass in hand. Same posture. Same cool superiority. He had always looked like he belonged in rooms like this. Camille had always looked like she had been placed in them by mistake.
"You actually showed up," he said.
"As requested," she replied.
His mouth tilted slightly. Not quite a smile. "Mother will be pleased."
"She will be relieved. There is a difference."
He studied her for a moment. "You look… distant."
"I feel accurately represented, then."
He exhaled slowly. "You do not have to be like this, Camille."
"Like what?"
"Difficult."
She met his gaze calmly. "You confuse boundaries with hostility."
His eyes hardened. "You have spent years pushing this family away."
"I was pushed first."
A flicker of discomfort crossed his face, gone almost immediately. "You could still choose differently."
"Choose what?" she asked. "A life of appearances? Of pretending I belong to a world that only tolerates me when convenient?"
He hesitated. "Mother is trying."
Camille almost laughed. "Mother is maintaining an image."
That was when their mother approached.
Graceful and polished.
Her perfume was expensive. Her posture impeccable. Her smile did not reach her eyes.
"Camille," she said gently. "You look… appropriate tonight."
Appropriate. Not beautiful. Not welcome. Not missed.
"Thank you," Camille replied.
Her mother's gaze traveled over her in a way that felt more like assessment than affection. "You should consider joining conversations more. Guests have asked about you."
"That must be inconvenient for them," Camille said evenly.
Her brother shifted. Her mother's expression did not change.
"You remain such a mystery," her mother said. "It complicates things."
"That is intentional."
Silence lingered.
Then her mother's smile returned. "Do try not to leave too early."
Not because she wanted her daughter there. But because absence might raise questions.
Camille inclined her head politely and watched them walk away together.
She felt nothing.
Or maybe she felt too much and had learned not to name it.
She turned back to the crowd and took a small sip of champagne. It tasted sharp. Unpleasant. She set the glass aside. Her thoughts threatened to drift toward her last mission. The one she refused to unpack. She cut the memory off before it could fully form.
Not tonight.
Her gaze lifted again, scanning the room.
That was when she saw him.
He stood near the far wall, untouched drink in hand. He was not engaged in conversation. He was watching.
Not casually. Intentionally.
Their eyes met.
Camille did not look away.
He did not either.
Something shifted in the air between them. Not attraction. Not yet. Awareness.
He was too still. Too focused. He did not look like the other men in the room who pretended disinterest while secretly searching for approval. This man was not searching. He was evaluating.
Interesting.
She broke eye contact first. Not because she felt unsettled but because she chose to. She reached for a glass from a passing waiter and turned her back to him deliberately.
A moment passed.
Then another.
"Are you always this disengaged at events like these?"
His voice was low and calm.
Camille did not startle. She turned slowly.
He was taller than she had expected. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes that held too much control to be harmless.
"Are you always this comfortable approaching strangers?" she asked.
He studied her briefly. "Only the ones who look like they would not be offended."
"And what makes you think I am not?"
"Your posture," he said. "Your eyes. You look like someone who does not waste energy on offense."
She considered that.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Kade."
Just that.
No last name. No explanation.
She almost respected the simplicity.
"And you?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Camille," she said finally.
Not Devile.
Just Camille.
He nodded once, as if committing it to memory. "You look like you would rather be anywhere else."
"I would rather be somewhere honest."
"Then you came to the wrong gathering."
That earned him the faintest hint of a smile.
"Are you here voluntarily?" she asked.
"Yes."
That answer told her nothing and everything.
Silence settled between them. Not awkward. Charged.
"Dance with me," he said.
She blinked. "That was not a question."
"No."
Camille studied him for a long second.
She had spent the entire evening suffocating in boredom. This was the first moment that felt unscripted.
"Fine," she said. "One song."
The dance floor swallowed them into dim light and motion. His hand settled at her waist with controlled certainty. He moved like someone accustomed to leading and unaccustomed to being questioned.
She followed easily.
They spoke quietly between steps. Nothing revealing. Small observations. Subtle humor. Light teasing. It felt easy. Too easy.
She was aware of his body. Of his attention. Of the fact that he never once overstepped. That alone made him dangerous.
When the song ended, neither of them moved immediately.
Eventually, without discussion, they drifted toward the balcony. The air outside was cooler, the city lights distant and blurred.
Silence settled again.
Kade's gaze dropped to her mouth.
Camille noticed.
She did not step away.
The kiss came slowly. Controlled. Like he was testing her reaction rather than taking anything from her.
For a moment, she allowed herself to exist in nothing but sensation.
Then instinct returned.
She pulled back.
He did not reach for her again. He simply watched her.
"This is where I stop," she said quietly.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I do not lose control with strangers."
A beat passed.
"And yet you did," he said softly.
She held his gaze. "No. I chose."
Then she turned and walked away.
No explanation. No lingering. No glance back.
She did not see the way his eyes followed her departure.
She did not know this would not be the end.
She only knew that she had just walked away from the most intriguing man she had ever met.
And that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.