Page 13 of Hunt Me

That should bother me. Instead, it intrigues me.

“First time at one of these?” I gesture to the ballroom, the clusters of Boston’s elite pretending they care about sick children instead of tax deductions.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’re not networking.” I lean against the wall beside her, adopting the casual posture that usually makes women lean in. “Everyone else here is working the room. You’re studying it.”

“Maybe I’m just antisocial.”

“Or maybe you’re smart enough to know these people aren’t worth the effort.” I flash the grin that’s gotten me out of more trouble than I can count. “Present company excluded, naturally.”

Her lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile. “Naturally.”

“So, what brings you here? If it is not the sparkling conversation and overpriced champagne.”

“Curiosity.” She shifts, creating more distance between us. Deliberate. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“The Ivanov charity circuit?” I move closer, closing the gap she created. “It’s mostly performance art. My brother insists we maintain appearances.”

“How exhausting for you.”

There’s something in her tone—amusement, maybe mockery. Like she knows something I don’t.

“I manage.” I study her profile as she turns back to the Rothko. Sharp jawline. No jewelry except small diamond studs. Everything about her screams minimalist. “What do you do, Iris Mitchell? Besides crash charity galas and critique abstract expressionism.”

“Cybersecurity consulting.”

My interest sharpens. “Yeah? For whom?”

“Various clients. No one you’d know.” She sips her champagne, still not looking at me. “Mostly financial institutions. Boring corporate work.”

“I doubt anything you do is boring.”

Now she looks at me fully, and there’s something calculating in her gaze. Like she’s running algorithms behind those blue eyes.

“You’d be surprised. It’s mostly preventative measures. Stopping people from doing stupid things with their data.”

“Sounds tedious.”

“It pays well.” She pauses. “Though I imagine you wouldn’t know much about tedious work, would you? Being an Ivanov must open doors.”

The comment lands wrong. Not quite an insult, but close enough to sting.

“The name opens doors,” I admit. “What I do with those opportunities is all me.”

“And what do you do?”

“Systems architecture. Security protocols. Digital infrastructure.” I watch for recognition, for the moment where people usually realize I’m not just some spoiled bratva prince playing with computers.

Her expression doesn’t change. “Impressive.”

But she doesn’t sound impressed. She sounds... amused.

My phone buzzes again. Three alerts this time.

I silence it without looking. “Do I bore you, Mr. Ivanov?”

“Not even a little.” I pocket the phone and give her my full attention. “Though I’m starting to think you’re immune to my charm.”