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None of that Irish fada explanation shit everyone online is so fucking crazy about.

Wrong pronunciation or not, my mother called me Balor, and that’s my fucking name.

I should be proud.

But I feel like a fucking fraud.

Because no matter how high I climb, I can’t forget who I am.

A fatherless scamp from the wrong side of the tracks.

Raised by shadows and silence.

Taught by hunger, molded by grit.

What makes it worse?

What makes the fact of my parentage even fucking harder to swallow?

I can’t stop looking at her.

Lucy Volkov.

Marat Volkov’s firstborn daughter. Heiress to a tech empire that spans continents. She walks like the world owes her space, and it gives it willingly.

She’s every inch a goddess in heels and silk. Regal without trying. Unattainable without effort.

The kind of woman who turns heads and doesn’t even notice anymore.

The kind of woman who smiles like she knows all your secrets—and isn’t afraid to use them if you step out of line.

One flash of those sapphire blue eyes, and I’m wrecked.

The slightest glimpse of her creamy skin, and my entire body locks up like it’s been shocked.

Her hair, dark as midnight, falls in thick, silky waves down her back, like a cloak spun from ink.

I think about running my fingers through it more times than I care to admit.

Her lips? Full. Pink. Dangerous.

They frown when she’s concentrating, and fuck if it doesn’t make me want to smooth the line away with my thumb.

But the second she catches someone watching, they perk up into a practiced smile. The kind that makes you wonder if you imagined the frown at all.

She’s not a tease.

She’s just stunning.

Effortless and electric all at once.

And I never realized how much work goes into being that beautiful until I started watching her.

And yeah—I watch her. Like a hawk. Like a fool.

Even when she’s exhausted, even when the eyes of strangers cling to her like smoke, she holds herself together.

Smiles. Says thank you. Keeps her chin high and her tone polite.