I stand before the mirror, adjusting the black dress that clings to my frame like a second skin. The fabric is smooth, sculpting my curves, the high slit at my thigh a deliberate defiance against the modesty my father prefers. A silver necklace rests against my collarbone, subtle yet sharp, just like me. My hair is pulled into a sleek low ponytail, controlled, restrained—until I decide otherwise. The final touch: black stilettos, lethal in both height and intent. If I have to endure this night, I'll do it looking like a threat.
Because tonight is yet another gala. Another suffocating event filled with false smiles and quiet battles disguised as polite conversation. Another night where I'll be forced to play my part—the obedient daughter of Julius Stravos, standing among the most powerful families in our world.
And if that wasn't enough, tonight, I'll be facing them. The ones I despise most.
But no matter what happens, I refuse to show weakness. Not now. Not ever.
The car glides through the city, the distant hum of London fading as we approach the grand estate where the gala is being held. Inside, the air is thick with my father's presence, his silent expectations suffocating. I cross my legs, fingers drumming against my clutch as the vehicle slows.
The moment the door opens, the flash of cameras, the murmur of voices, the weight of a world built on power and deception greets me. I step out, head high. Another night, another performance.
The grand ballroom is a masterpiece of opulence—gold chandeliers casting a warm glow over a sea of silk and diamonds. The air hums with quiet conversations, calculated laughter, and the unspoken tensions between families bound by power and blood. I recognize them all—the Blacwoods, the Morellis, the Vasilyevs—each a kingdom of its own, gathered under one roof.
My father walks ahead, his presence commanding, while my mother glides beside him, ever the picture of quiet control. And me? I follow, slipping into my role, another pawn in a game played long before I was born.
The Romanos stands at the center of the ballroom. A man who's looking at me with that gaze, I assume him to be Matteo Romano. The elder son of Salvatore Romano. His dark eyes sweep over me with something between curiosity and amusement, like he already knows exactly who I am.
"Julius," Salvatore Romano greets, shaking my father's hand with a firm grip. "It's good to finally make this alliance official."
"Likewise," my father replies smoothly. "You've met my wife, Cassandra. And this is my daughter, Elysia."
Matteo's gaze lingers on me as he offers a slow, knowing smile. "Ah, the infamous Elysia Stravos. I've heard much about you."
I arch a brow, unimpressed. "Hope it wasn't all good."
He chuckles, low and knowing. "Depends on who you ask."
The conversation shifts as our fathers discuss business, but Matteo's eyes remain fixed on me, studying, assessing. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first. If he thinks I'll be just another piece on their board. He's stupidly mistaken for that.
The shift in the room is immediate. Conversations dull, movements still, and a quiet tension spreads like a slow-burning fuse. I don't need to look. I already know who it is.
Still, my head turns on its own, my fingers tightening around the delicate stem of my glass. And there he is.
Kazimir Morozov Beckett.
He's impossible to ignore.
Standing at 6'3, he commands attention without effort. Broad shoulders fill out his perfectly tailored black suit, the fabric hugging every sharp line of his body. His hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, only adding to the ruthless precision that defines him. Everything about him is sharp—his jawline, his cheekbones, his presence.
But it's his eyes that are the real threat. Amber, molten under the light, predatory in their intensity. They scan the room slowly, deliberately, like he's already several steps ahead of everyone here. A king among men. A wolf among sheep.
Then there's the ink. A single, bold tattoo curves along the side of his neck—a mark of something dark, something permanent. But just below his ear, etched into his skin in clean, precise script, is a name. His name.
Kazimir.
A statement. A brand. A warning.
And just like that, his gaze finds mine.
The smirk that curves his lips is nothing short of infuriating, like he already knows what this night will bring. And maybe he does. Because when Kazimir is in the same room as me, there's only ever one outcome.
A fight.
The air between us crackles—not with tension, but with certainty. Because this is how it always begins. Kazimir walks in, and I meet him with fire.
I tilt my chin up, refusing to look away first. That would be surrender, and I have never surrendered to him. His smirk deepens, as if he's amused by my defiance, as if he enjoys this twisted little game we play.
And then, just like that, he moves—fluid, confident, calculated.
He doesn't weave through the crowd; it parts for him. Powerful men straighten their suits. Women glance his way, some in intrigue, some in fear. But Kazimir? His focus is singular.
I roll my eyes, turn on my heel and walk away.
The room hums with conversation, but I don't care. My heels click against the marble floor as I make my way toward the bar, needing a drink, needing space. Anything to shake off the weight of his presence.
But even as I slide onto a barstool and order a whiskey, I can feel his eyes on me. Watching.
Then.
Of course, he follows. Because that's how it has always been.
There hasn't been a single gala where we haven't fought, where we haven't turned the evening into a spectacle for the entire room to witness. It's a pattern, a ritual—one neither of us has ever cared to break.
I hear the familiar sound of his footsteps behind me before I see him. Slow, deliberate. The kind that carries the promise of trouble.
I take a sip of my whiskey, not bothering to turn around. "Don't you have better things to do, Morozov?"
His voice comes from just behind me, low and taunting. "And miss our usual entertainment? Hellcat, you entertain me."
Hellcat.
He's called me that for years. Always with that smug look, like he enjoys watching me bristle. Like he knows exactly how to get under my skin. And damn it, he does. He knows exactly how much I hate this nickname.
I set my glass down with a sharp clink, my jaw tightening. "You act like I enjoy this, Kazimir," I say, my voice low, edged with warning. "Like I don't have better things to do than waste my night fighting with you."
He chuckles, the sound deep, infuriating. "Oh, but you do enjoy it, don't you?" He leans in just enough to test my patience, his voice dropping to something only I can hear. "You're nothing but a pain in the ass for this entire world! You've always been this nagging kid, Hellcat."
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I hate that nickname. Hate that it rolls off his tongue so easily, like he's branded me with it.
I take a step closer, refusing to back down. "You think this is a game?" My voice is sharp, my nails digging into my palm. "One day, Kazimir, you'll push too far."
His smirk deepens, his eyes flickering over my face as if memorizing every ounce of my fury. "And what will you do then, hmm?" He lifts a hand, mockingly adjusting his cuff. "Scratch me? Claw me? Show everyone here just how much of a hellcat you really are? But guess what? You don't need to prove that—everyone already knows what an angry little pussy you are."
I don't think. I just act.
The slap echoes through the air before I even process it. The music doesn't stop, the chatter doesn't cease, but nearby, people glance our way—some amused, some wary.
Kazimir's head tilts slightly from the impact, his cheek bearing the mark of my fury. But he doesn't look angry. No, that would be too simple. Too human.
He licks the inside of his cheek, exhales sharply, then—laughs.
Kazimir's fingers snap around my wrist in a bruising grip, yanking me toward him with enough force that I nearly stumble. A sharp gasp leaves my lips, but I refuse to let him see weakness.
"You've got some nerve, Elysia," he murmurs, his amber eyes dark with something unreadable. He tightens his hold just enough to send a sharp sting up my arm. "Slapping me in front of everyone? You really don't learn, do you?"
I grit my teeth, yanking back, but he doesn't let go. "Let. Me. Go." My voice is low, laced with fury, but he only smirks, tilting his head as if amused by my struggle.
"I can snap your neck right now." he reminds me, his grip never wavering. "What's wrong? Can't handle the consequences?"
Something in me snaps. I twist my wrist sharply, breaking free, and the moment I do, I shove him—hard.
Gasps ripple through the crowd, the weight of dozens of eyes settling on us.
Kazimir barely stumbles back, but the shift in his stance is enough to tell me he wasn't expecting it. His smirk falters, replaced by something sharper, something lethal.
"Do that again," he dares, voice dangerously low.
I do.
I shove him again, this time stepping forward, refusing to let him tower over me. "You don't scare me," I hiss, my pulse hammering. "You never have."
Kazimir exhales, slow and measured, before his hands shoot out—grabbing me by the waist and spinning me around so fast the room blurs. My back hits the bar counter with a thud, his frame caging me in.
A collective hush falls over the room.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that I can see the storm brewing in his amber eyes. "You think you can fight me?" His voice is barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the silence like a blade.
"Why don't you fight when I—" he pauses, his gaze flicking to my lips.
For a second, I think he might...
Why would I even think that?
Ew.
Ew, ew, ew.
Never.
Never in my life.
A sharp voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
"Elysia!"
I go rigid.
The deep, commanding tone of my father sends a cold wave down my spine. I don't have to turn around to know what kind of look is on his face—I can feel the fury radiating from across the room.
Kazimir, still pinning me against the bar, smirks. "Uh-oh," he murmurs. "Someone's in trouble." His smirk widens as he winks.
Before I can retaliate, a strong hand grips my upper arm, yanking me away from Kazimir with enough force to make me stumble.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dad's voice is sharp, his grip punishing.
I shake him off, lifting my chin defiantly. "What does it look like?"
His jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage. His voice drops to a whisper. "I told you not to make a scene tonight. Not in front of the Romanos."
I don't respond. What's the point? He's already seething, already convinced that I'm the disgrace he's always accused me of being.
Dad turns to Kazimir, jabbing a finger at him. "Listen here, you bastard. Stay away from my daughter, or I'll put a bullet right in your chest."
Kazimir leans closer to my father, his teeth gritted. "This b—" he pauses, seemingly choosing his words carefully in front of the hundreds of people watching. "She slapped me. And you know damn well this isn't the first time."
His gaze shifts to me, burning with anger. "Be ready for the consequences."
Then, turning back to my father, he jabs a finger at him, one eyebrow raised. "You."
Dad grabs my wrist again, harder this time, and without another word, he drags me out of the ballroom.
I don't fight him, but I don't make it easy either, my heels clicking loudly against the marble floor as he pulls me past the murmuring crowd.
My father's grip is tight around my wrist as he drags me through the towering doors, his fury a low, simmering heat at my back. But I don't care. Not about the whispers, not about the disapproving stares, and certainly not about the consequences waiting for me outside these gilded walls.
God, I hate Kazimir. I hate him from the very depths of my heart. What does he think of himself? That he can just tower over me? Overshadow me? Just because he's tall doesn't mean he's strong. The truth is, he's nothing but a coward!
He loves to create a scene, especially after he found out that my father blames me for everything
Just before we disappear through the doors, I steal one last glance over my shoulder.
This hatred is far from over, Morozov.
He's the Devil of my story.
He's the Devil I was raised to hate.
The cold night air bites at my skin as we step outside, but the real storm is yet to come. The moment we reach the sleek black car waiting at the curb, my father shoves me inside without a word. The door slams shut behind him, sealing me in with his rage.
"Did I not warn you?" His voice cuts through the tense silence, sharp as a blade. "Did I not make it clear that you were to behave tonight?"
I don't respond. I simply turn my gaze to the window, watching as the golden glow of the gala fades into the distance.
"Answer me, Elysia!" His roar reverberates inside the car, but I refuse to flinch.
"I did behave," I say, my voice flat, detached.
His hand slams against the center console, and I feel the force of it rattle through me. "You call that behaving? I told you the Morozovs are planning an attack. We cannot afford a fight for at least a week. There are a few deals we need to settle with the Romanos first. And you? You ruined it!"
My mother places a firm hand on his arm, her voice calm but edged with warning. "Enough, Julius."
A cold laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Oh, I ruined it?" I tilt my head, my nails digging into my palms. "I wasn't the one who made a scene in front of half the city, dragging me out like some rebellious teenager. That was all you."
His glare darkens. "Watch your tone."
"Or what?" I challenge, my pulse hammering. "You'll make another example out of me? Go ahead, Dad. Give them something new to whisper about."
His grip on the wheel tightens, but my mother cuts in before he can lash out again. "That's enough, both of you." Her voice is sharper this time, carrying the authority neither of us dares to challenge.
Silence settles between us, thick and suffocating. I cross my arms and stare out the window, watching the city blur past.
The rest of the drive is silent, tension crackling in the air like a storm waiting to break. My father doesn't speak again, though his grip on the wheel remains iron-tight. My mother sits stiffly beside him, her fingers pressed to her temple.
The car slows as we approach the mansion, the towering gates swinging open at our arrival. My father doesn't even glance my way as we pull in, doesn't acknowledge me as he steps out. Fine by me.
I don't need his approval.
I've spent years enduring these stupid galas, these endless power plays, these suffocating expectations. And I'll do it again.
Because that's what Stravos women do.
Even when we hate every second of it.