Page 7

I’m hooked and maybe in serious trouble.

Sergei.

The one name that had been on my mind since my last encounter with him about a week ago.

This mystery man, his voice smooth and husky, his piercing gray eyes cold and calculating, still stole my breath even in his absence.

The harder I tried to stop myself from thinking about him, the more I dwelt on the memory of our brief conversation.

Despite his charming grin and smooth talk, Sergei was unreadable with a dangerously calm demeanor. Something about him didn’t feel right. I didn’t know what it was exactly, but his energy, his aura…it was different. Dark.

He was hot—so hot, in fact, that just the mere thought of him sent shivers down my spine. However, beneath the polished and attractive exterior was something a bit more sinister.

The man was trouble—dangerous, even. I could tell. Yet, for some strange reason, that seemed to be the very thing that pulled me in. He still hadn’t made any contact with me since the last time I missed his call, and the weird part was that I wished he’d reach out.

It took nearly everything in me to hold back and not return his call.

I couldn’t afford coming off as desperate—not that I was anyway.

It was just too big a risk to take. What if I called back, and he misread the situation?

There was absolutely nothing wrong with returning a call one had missed.

But my paranoia wouldn’t let me, and that was how I knew I was playing with fire.

Whenever the thought of him popped up in my head, I got anxious for no reason. My heart would either stop or start racing like fuckin’ tires on asphalt, full throttle and no brakes.

I liked him. Even though I hadn’t admitted it yet.

Damn, it was way too soon to be feeling this twisted up over someone I barely knew. The signs were right there in front of me; I could deny them, but they were there.

A few days ago, I went full spy mode—Googling “Sergei” like it would magically give me answers.

But as expected, no luck.

So, I threw in some extra vague details for flavor—Chicago, Russian, gray eyes—hoping it would somehow narrow it down.

Still came up empty. Couldn’t find a damn thing.

It was like this man was a ghost. Like he didn’t exist.

Or maybe the problem was with me; maybe I just wasn’t giving the Internet enough to work with. Things would have been a lot easier if I knew his last name. I guess if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave that day at the gallery, maybe, just maybe, he would have told me if I asked.

Anyway, Sergei should be the last person on my mind right now, considering that tonight was Maeve’s bridal tasting.

Yay!

This should be the perfect distraction to help keep my mind occupied with something other than a strange, attractive man in a fancy suit.

The event was held in a luxury rooftop lounge uptown, elegant yet perhaps a little too extravagant. But then again, given my family’s obsession with perfection, it was to be expected.

Glass railings gleamed under fairy lights, and sleek fire pits cast a golden glow over the polished stone floor.

Tall heaters hummed quietly in the corners, warding off the evening chill, while a soft jazz trio played near the bar.

The cool music weaved seamlessly through the clinking of crystal and the blissful laughter that blended with the scent of fresh flowers.

A tantalizing medley of baked goods and grilled treats drifted through the air like a promise, teasing every passing nose.

The full moon hanging somewhere in the celestial canvas cast its ethereal glow over the city’s landscape and slow-moving traffic far below.

Quietly, I sashayed through the crowd, resplendent in a fitted black slip, simple yet classy with a daring slit and thin straps that left my shoulders bare.

The dress revealed much more skin than I originally wanted.

But I had to look the part. I was already the odd one in the family, the black sheep; the last thing I needed was unwanted attention from our guests.

That would only invite more lectures from my parents about being more ladylike.

“You always embarrass the family, Ayla. I’m looking forward to a better version of you tonight. At least for your sister’s sake,” Mom had said to me. It sounded like a plea, but it also carried a hint of warning.

She was the one who hand-picked this dress for me—without my consent, if I might add. Now, I could barely breathe. The gown was too tight, accentuating my curves and contours.

Honestly, I was a bit uncomfortable, especially with all those eyes following my every movement.

Our guests, dressed in designer gowns and tailored suits, lingered around in small groups, chattering, laughing, and sipping champagne.

Waiters dressed in black and white moved like clockwork, refilling glasses with polite smiles.

It was a lively atmosphere, nothing short of Amazing.

“There you are. You made it,” Mom’s voice wafted into my ears, her heels clicking rapidly against the floor as she approached me.

“My God, look at you,” she teased, her eyes widening in adoration.

“You look amazing.” She helped smooth out the few wrinkles on my gown.

“See, I told you it would fit perfectly.”

“Yeah, it did fit perfectly. Maybe a little too perfectly because I can barely breathe in this,” I replied, my lips pursing to suppress my smile.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, you’ll get used to it. Now quit whining.” She lowered her head, scribbling God-knows-what on the clipboard in her hand.

Mom, the self-appointed supervisor, had been bustling around, barking orders at the staff and making sure every flower arrangement was perfectly in place. She was managing the event like a perfectionist planner.

She mumbled something under her breath, and a faint scowl flashed across her face.

There must have been some kind of error or mistake in whatever she was looking at on that clipboard.

Mom cursed in silence and departed in a hurry like she was about to chop someone’s head off.

This was her first daughter’s bridal tasting, and she wanted everything to be perfect. No mistakes.

Mom was in full command mode—half event planner, half general—making sure that the night ran as flawlessly as she had envisioned. I felt sorry for whoever was unfortunate enough to get on her bad side.

Across the crowd, I spotted Maeve standing poised on a pair of high heels.

Her posture was elegant, her eyes shining with excitement, with a radiant smile playing on her lips.

Her red dress clung to her like a second skin, hugging her in all the right places.

She was gorgeous, glowing like a goddess—the perfect definition of the perfect daughter.

My parents had never been upset with Maeve.

Never. Not even once. And it wasn’t because they loved her more; it was simply because she always did as she was told.

My older sister was not a troublemaker. She was kind, quiet—such a loving soul.

She was selfless, always putting other people’s needs above hers.

That was why she got along so well with my parents. She knew her duties, she knew where her loyalties lay, and for that, our father was super proud of her. Of course, he was. Nobody liked to be challenged, especially not Ronan O’Hara.

Mom had always said that I was the apple that fell far from the tree. Why? Because I didn’t fit in the family. I didn’t always do what I was told, and my stubbornness, according to her, could give a mule a run for its money.

But was that really true?

Dad was not nice—at all. He wasn’t kind to anyone who wouldn’t do his bidding. He was impulsive, headstrong, and always did what he wanted, no matter what anyone else said.

Sound familiar?

Yep. That was the source of my stubbornness. They just wouldn’t admit it. Not to my face, anyway.

Anyhoo, enough of that. Tonight was about my sister’s happiness, and watching her laugh with her companions prompted a smile on my lips. Cradling a champagne flute, her long blonde hair cascaded down her back like a river of gold as she moved her hands, discussing with her friends.

She and I were worlds apart—the exact opposite of each other. And although we didn’t always agree on many things, she was still the only sibling I had in the whole world, and her happiness was mine too.

My lips curled into a faint grin, and I helped myself to a chilled glass of wine from a waiter’s tray. Maeve and I would have a sisterly talk later on, but for now, let me leave her with her folks.

I lifted the glass to my mouth and took a sip before slipping through the crowd. All of a sudden, I felt claustrophobic, and this damn dress wasn’t helping my situation at all.

I needed some air.

I had to hide from a few familiar faces, dodging their glances as I escaped to the far end of the terrace, away from the crowd. The air was cooler here, crisper, and much more welcoming.

I let out a slow sigh, grateful for the quiet.

My fingers wrapped around the polished railing, and my eyes swept across the horizon as I took another sip.

The wind was gentle against my face, the scent of flowers invading my nostrils.

In the distance, a siren wailed, blending seamlessly with the laughter and chatter from the gathering I had just left.

I watched the skyline, trying not to think about how familiar it felt to be watched—to be on display. Mom was still moving like a general at war, barking orders, while somewhere near the elevator, Dad’s men stood vigilant, their sharp eyes missing nothing.

And then, I smelled it—the familiar scent of his cologne, rich and manly. It was faint in the air, but I did smell it. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, that uncanny sense of being watched. His cologne gave him away, and now my heart had sunk into my belly.