I hated that I was still thinking about him.
It was irrational. I had barely exchanged a glance with the man, yet his presence clung to me like an unshakable perfume. Even as I smiled through conversations with business moguls and politicians, even as I listened to yet another dull speech about economic growth, a part of me remained aware of him.
He wasn't following me. He wasn't trying to catch my attention.
He didn't have to.
He was simply there, a silent force in the room, as if waiting for the inevitable.
And the most infuriating part?
I wanted to look at him again.
The realization unsettled me. I had spent my life surrounded by powerful men, men who prided themselves on their wealth, their last names, their ability to make the world bend to their will. I had seen their tactics—the arrogance, the charm, the way they tried to make me feel chosen.
This man was different.
There was no performance. No effort to lure me in.
He wasn't trying to impress me. He wasn't trying at all.
And that, perhaps, was what made him dangerous.
I picked up a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and turned, not toward him, but in his direction. A calculated move, done under the guise of casual indifference.
And just as I expected—just as I knew—our eyes met again.
It wasn't a coincidence.
It wasn't an accident.
This was deliberate. A silent conversation woven between the distance, unspoken yet understood.
I raised my glass slightly, an unspoken acknowledgment.
His lips twitched—just barely. Not a full smile, not even amusement. Just a flicker, like he knew exactly what I was doing.
I held his gaze a second longer than I should have.
Then, as if the moment had never existed, I turned away.
But deep down, I knew—this wasn't over.
Not even close.