The gala was in full swing by the time I arrived. A flood of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of whispered deals filled the air. It wasn't my scene, but then again, it never was. The world of polished suits and gleaming smiles was a mask—one I'd worn myself before, a thousand times, when I had to blend in and remain unnoticed.
But tonight, the mask felt suffocating.
I could feel his presence the moment I stepped into the ballroom. Rafael Antonov. Even though he was still across the room, I could sense the pull of his power, the way the crowd seemed to gravitate toward him, almost instinctively. He was a king among men, and everyone knew it.
But I wasn't here to admire him. I was here to end him.
As I moved through the crowd, I allowed myself to blend in—my posture straight, my expression impassive. My black dress, simple but elegant, clung to my form in all the right places, the slit at the thigh offering just enough to be dangerous. The heels were designed for more than just walking—they were weapons. But tonight, I had no intention of drawing attention to myself. I wasn't here to be seen. I was here to do a job.
The plan was simple: infiltrate, get close to Antonov, strike when the time was right. The Veil had given me everything I needed to take him out. But something was nagging at the back of my mind—something wasn't right.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I glanced around, my eyes scanning the crowd. Nothing was amiss. But still, there was a sense of being watched, a sensation that crawled beneath my skin like a thousand tiny spiders. I shook it off. It was probably just the tension of the mission.
I kept my eyes trained on Antonov, his figure moving through the crowd like a shadow. He was exactly how the rumors described him—unapproachable, cold, commanding. Yet, there was an undercurrent to him that drew me in. Something in the way he walked, in the way he surveyed the room with detached superiority. He had the look of a man who had everything, but whose very existence was a constant war.
And the scar—how could I not think of it? That brutal mark across his throat, as if someone had tried to take everything from him and failed. It made him look less like a man and more like a force of nature—something untamed, wild, and dangerous.
I felt my pulse quicken, and I couldn't tell if it was from the proximity of my target or from the simple fact that I couldn't stop looking at him.
I had to focus. This wasn't about desire, or attraction, or whatever the hell it was stirring in my chest. It was about survival. About taking him down before he could destroy everything I'd worked for.
I adjusted my mask, watching as Antonov made his way toward the bar. The moment he approached, the air around him seemed to shift, like the space itself had acknowledged his presence. The crowd parted effortlessly as he moved, but the way they looked at him—there was a mix of awe and fear. People deferred to him without even realizing it.
As I moved toward him, my heart began to race. This was it. My chance.
But then, something unexpected happened.
A man, tall and broad, stepped in my way, blocking my path with his massive frame. It was Ilya, Antonov's right-hand man. The man who had always made me feel like a target.
He flashed a smile that was far too knowing for my taste. "Seraphina," he purred, his voice smooth and low. "I knew you'd be here."
I suppressed a frown, the ice around me thickening. "I didn't realize you were a mind reader, Ilya," I replied, my voice as calm and controlled as always.
He took a step closer, his breath warm against my skin. "You always hide your intentions behind that mask. It's… fascinating. But you know, it's not really your mask that draws me in." He chuckled, the sound dark and taunting. "It's you."
I forced a smile, but it didn't reach my eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
Ilya wasn't just another pawn in this game. He was dangerous in his own right, slippery, and unpredictable. But I wasn't here for him. I was here for Antonov.
Ilya leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Careful, Seraphina. Men like Antonov don't just take what they want—they break what they touch."
I didn't respond. Instead, I glanced over his shoulder, my eyes finding Antonov once more. The tension in my chest tightened. He was standing at the bar, speaking to someone, but his gaze… his gaze was on me.
For the briefest moment, our eyes locked. His dark, intense stare pierced right through me, as though he could see every single thought running through my mind. He didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge the moment. But in his gaze, I felt it—the challenge. The tension. And, somehow, an invitation.
The thought sent a sharp thrill through me, but I quickly pushed it aside. No. I wasn't here to play his games. I wasn't here for his charm. I had one mission: to end him.
Ilya followed my gaze and smirked knowingly. "He's watching you. Be careful," he warned.
"I'll take my chances," I said, moving past him without a second glance.
As I approached the bar, the reality of the situation hit me with a force I wasn't expecting. I was getting closer. Closer to Rafael Antonov than I had ever been. The air between us seemed to hum with electricity, the tension palpable. My pulse quickened in my veins, my instincts screaming at me to be cautious, to be careful. But even as I moved toward him, I felt something else. A pull. An undeniable attraction.
I pushed those thoughts aside.
"Mr. Antonov," I said, my voice calm, smooth, and impassive as I stood beside him. "A pleasure to finally meet you."
He turned his head, his dark eyes immediately locking onto mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. His gaze was like a heavy weight, pressing down on me, making me feel exposed, vulnerable.
His lips curved into a small, predatory smile. "So it is," he said, his voice low and velvety, sending a shiver down my spine. "I've been expecting you, Seraphina."
I felt my heart skip a beat.