Elena

The chandelier glitters like a thousand icicles above me — but nothing is colder than the man who hasn’t stopped watching me since I walked in.

Luca Volkov stands across the ballroom, a glass of whiskey in his hand, jaw set like carved stone.

Every time another man speaks to me, his eyes sharpen.

He hasn’t spoken a word to me tonight.

But his silence is louder than a scream.

I fix my smile, perfect and polite, as an investor’s son leans a little too close.

“So, Ms. Moretti,” he says, lips brushing the rim of his champagne flute, “a woman like you must already have someone.”

I breathe in, answer lightly, “I choose myself.”

But then I feel it — the burn on the back of my neck.

A stare. Heavy. Unblinking.

Luca is already moving toward us.

The crowd parts for him instinctively — power isn’t loud, it’s recognized.

The investor keeps talking, oblivious.

I don’t hear a word anymore.

Because Luca stops behind me, one hand sliding casually into his pocket — casual except for the tension in his body.

“Can I help you?” the investor asks him with awkward bravado.

Luca doesn’t even look at him.

His gaze is locked on me.

“Elena.”

Just my name — low, controlled, lethal.

I tilt my head, smile sweetly. “Mr. Volkov.”

That flicker in his jaw — I hit the nerve.

The investor chuckles nervously. “Do the two of you—”

“We work together,” I interrupt.

But Luca says at the same time: “She’s with me.”

My breath catches.

The investor raises his hands and mutters something about fresh air before escaping.

It leaves only Luca and me, surrounded by people who pretend they aren’t eavesdropping.

“You had no right to say that,” I whisper.

His eyes darken. “He had no right to put his hand on you.”

“He didn’t.”

“I saw him think about it,” he snaps.

His jealousy is a wildfire in a glass cage — violent but contained.

I take a step closer, forcing him to feel the proximity he avoids.

“You don’t get to want me and push me away.”

The muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Wanting you was never the problem, Elena.”

My pulse stutters.

Before I can speak, a familiar voice interrupts — Matteo.

My brother’s arm slides around my shoulders, protective and territorial.

“You alright, angel?”

He stares straight at Luca with undisguised hatred.

Luca’s expression doesn’t change — but the air becomes heavy, lethal.

“I was keeping an eye on her,” Luca says.

Matteo snorts. “We both know you’re good at watching, Volkov. It’s the choosing that you failed at.”

Luca goes still.

Everyone around us pretends to chat louder — they know a war is about to break.

I touch Matteo’s hand. “Let’s go get something to drink.”

We walk away.

But I feel Luca’s eyes on me the entire time — scorching the bare skin of my back like a brand.

Later, when Matteo excuses himself to answer a call, Luca finds me alone on the terrace.

The city lights glow behind him.

Snowflakes catch in his dark hair.

He looks unreal — a king in exile.

“Elena,” he says, voice ragged.

I look at him without mercy.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

He closes his eyes like the words hit harder than a bullet.

When he opens them, they’re silver.

“I’m not jealous,” he says slowly. “I’m furious.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only person in this room who has ever mattered to me,” he says, every word a confession and a curse.

“And I don’t have the right to touch you.”

The world goes silent.

My voice is barely breath. “Whose fault is that?”

Something shatters in his gaze — regret, desire, desperation.

He steps toward me.

Our breaths tangle.

His forehead almost touches mine.

“Elena… if I kiss you, I won’t stop.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

“Then don’t,” I whisper.

His hand rises — he’s about to cup my face — and then he freezes.

He pulls back like I burned him.

Because wanting and taking are different weapons — and tonight he’s too afraid to choose wrong.

“Not like this,” he says, destroying both of us in one sentence.

He leaves.

And I break all over again — not because he doesn’t love me.

But because he does.

And he’s still not ready.