Another useless gala he had to attend. Again. Cassian was over the hypocritical gathering, but he had to keep up with the facade. The marble steps were too polished. Too pristine. Like someone wanted him to forget, this place reeked of blood. Cassian Vale didn’t forget. Not anything…and he didn't plan on forgetting the significance of the syndicate. Ever.He walked through the grand foyer of the Morano Estate…a temporary Syndicate hosting venue for an international gala disguised as a diplomatic charity auction. Art dealers, oligarchs, old royalty… Just name it. They were all here, pretending this wasn’t a front for power-brokering in tailored tuxedos. He loved it though. He didn't have a problem with it because he was part of the system. It was in his blood, and he couldn't shake it off.

But he hated this city. He hated these walls. And most of all, he hated pretending. If he had his way, he would kill everyone here. These galas were just a way for the syndicate elders to get him into attending their lame meetings. There wasn't supposed to be a gala today or this month, but suddenly one was organized. At his expense. Just so they can attempt to dethrone him. He was filled with rage. Not out of fear of what they will do. Out of irritation because he was going to slice the throat of anyone who overstepped him. It meant getting his hands dirty, and that would take time. He hated wasting time.

“Mr. Vale.” A voice tried to get his attention. A young woman in pearls…unfamiliar, eager.

He didn’t stop. His tailored black suit cut clean through the crowd, drawing eyes, and silencing whispers. The name Cassian Vale brought a certain reaction in this world. Fear. Terror. Lust. Anticipation. Challenge.

Darius rushed towards him immediately he spotted him, adjusting his cufflink without needing to be told. “Kostova, and Saenz are upstairs,” he murmured. “They’re waiting for you before the proxy vote.” Perfect. Another meeting. Another vote. Just like he suspected.

“And Moretti?”

“Still delayed in Palermo. Naomi Sharif is here, though. Already asking questions.” The syndicate elders. The lame people without balls to do anything except complain.

Cassian’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flicked toward the grand staircase. Naomi Sharif didn’t attend to things she couldn’t control.

“She won’t like the veto I’m proposing,” he said.

Darius smirked faintly. “She never does. But this time, it seems she has a weakness. That hacker…”

“Nyx.” The name cut clean between them. Cold. Sharp.

Darius hesitated. “You’re certain?”

Cassian didn’t answer for sometime before nodding. “Definitely. It has to be her. It's the same person. Everything suggests that.”

Of course, he wasn’t a hundred percent certain just yet. But he’d reviewed the footage from Tangier three times before boarding the jet. Same gait. Same posture. Same scar…faint but there, trailing like a forgotten whisper across the jawline. And the timing. Always the timing.

She was playing with patterns now. Leaving footprints carefully enough that only he could see them. Which meant one thing: She wanted him to follow.

~~~~~

The ballroom was lined with gold and dusk.

Strings played some nameless opera. Waiters moved like whispers, carrying wine that cost more than silence. But Cassian didn’t drink. Not here.

Not when the Syndicate was watching.

He scanned the floor. His uncle wasn’t there yet, but Kostova, and Sharif stood near a display of antique sabers, murmuring in the controlled language of strategy.

Cassian moved past them with deliberate calm. Eyes forward. Posture unreadable.

And then he stopped. Something caught his eye. Someone. It couldn't be. It can't be.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Across the room…half-shadowed by the ornate arches of the east wing…a woman stood near the edge of the art display. Red gown. Minimal to no makeup. A diamond cuff that didn’t catch the light unless she wanted it to. She was talking to someone, but her body was angled just slightly away.

He wouldn’t have noticed her if he hadn’t trained himself to look beyond what was meant to be seen.

But it was her. He felt it in the shift of the air. He felt like the woman he was staring at was the woman a ghost. Cassian trusted his memory with his life. He's still alive, so that meant it never failed him.

The way her presence sat at odds with the room. Not loud. Not out of place. But off.

Like a symphony where one violin played a heartbeat faster.

Cassian moved closer.

She turned almost as if she could feel his burning gaze. Their eyes didn’t meet. Not yet. But the line of her jaw caught the chandelier’s light just long enough for recognition to threaten the back of his skull.

That scar.

That poise.

It was her. Jackpot. How dare she come to the lion's den? She obviously wasn't there to hack any database tonight. She was here for something else. Something more dangerous, and he might be tempted to give it to her.

He didn’t approach her.

Not directly.

He circled instead, like a chessmaster testing the weight of the next move. But she moved too…calm, effortless, and alerted. As if she knew the floor plan better than the architect. Cassian was a little bit impressed. She never let her guard down. She could sense something was off. She could sense him.

Then, without warning, she turned. And for the first time, their eyes met.

No fear. No startle. Only calculation.

Her lips tilted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Not a greeting. Not even a taunt.

Just…acknowledgment.

Cassian’s spine went rigid.

He didn’t recognize her. Not truly. Not yet. He knew. But there was no evidence, and he didn't operate without evidence.

But she wanted him to.

The scar wasn’t covered. The invitation wasn’t verbal. The war had arrived, dressed in elegance.

He stepped forward…two paces.

Then a call from the upstairs hall interrupted.

“Cassian Vale.”

He turned around immediately, almost like he was dismissing her. She wanted him to see her. So he won't. He didn’t glance back. But he knew…she was still watching.