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It’s the way she says it that makes me stop.

Not the words at first. It’s something about her voice, clear and precise, like she’s dissecting the world around her just to see how it ticks.

I hear it from across the room, cut through the music and the fake laughter. A girl, talking low to a group of girls near the drink table. I wouldn’t have noticed her if I wasn’t already bored and on edge. But then she says it again, soft and dead serious.

“I just want to understand what makes people do terrible things.”

It’s not a joke. She’s not trying to impress anyone. She means it.

And I turn to get a look at that soft voice.

The moment I see her, everything else fades to static.

Everything dulls, dims…leaving only her and I. In a room brimming with people, she is the only one I see.

A glowing ember in the darkness of my existence.

And I want her more than anything.

I watch as the girls she is speaking to ignore her statement. She stands awkwardly at the edge of the room, her gaze is fixed on the glass of orange juice in her hand, only rising when a member of the circle of people surrounding her shifts.

I recognize a few people in the crush, but they all pale in comparison to her.

She’s delicate, a pale dark-haired dove in a frilly green dress with skin like satin. My eyes follow her as an older woman in the circle turns to speak to her. When she responds, her lips, pink and full, moving with her words are plush and fuckable.

Her response is short and curt before she looks back at her glass, her bare shoulders rising and falling with a sigh.

My hand tightens around my own glass, a ball of hope, greed and something more sinister inflating in my chest as I will her gaze to rise one more time, to me.

Look at me, dove.

The need for her to look at me is so raw and intense, I consider walking over there, slipping my hand under her chin and forcing her eyes to me. My feet start moving.

One step, two…

The anticipation of being close to her is slowing the breath in my lungs, my heart pounds hard against my rib cage and I feel my mouth dry.

Just a few more feet…

A familiar face slips in in front of me, blocking my view of my dove, and I almost growl in annoyance at the grinning face of my brother.

“That’s a look,” he pauses to glance behind him. “You about to murder someone?”

“You’re in my way,” I seethe, my agitation growing at not being able to see her.

I need to see her.

I need…

“Come with me. Dad wants to introduce you to some people,” Archie says, stepping more into my space. He knows our father and I aren’t fucking talking. “The least you can do is play this facade and the night will be over soon, brother.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he wants.”

She could be gone… I don’t even know her name… How will I find her again if I don’t know her name?

“Five fucking minutes.” He carts me away from her.

I want to forget everything he just said, but I follow him anyway. Before I can blink, Dad’s practiced smile is in front of my face.

“Thatcher,” he exclaims in his usual false way, his eyes narrowing as he takes me in. Probably peeved at my lack of a tie.

He drags me closer, his grip on my shoulder strong. Archie flashes me a look before disappearing back into the crowd, his work done.

I’ll get him back for this.

My attention returns when my dad starts making introductions. “This is Thatcher, my youngest son.” He claps me on the back. “He goes to Blackridge, full hockey scholarship.” He sounds like a proud father, but I know better.

Wanting this to go faster, I thrust my hand out at the nearest old geezer. “Nice to meet you.”

The man accepts my hand with a corporate smile. “Edward Walsh.”

To my father, he says, “Fine young man you have there, John.”

Dad’s responding laugh grates on my already raw nerves, I don’t have time for this.

I exchange pleasantries and force smiles with the rest of the group before muttering under my breath to my father, “Can I go now? How much ass kissing do I have to do?”

I need to see her.

“Stay,” he hisses back, his smile intact.

Anger blooms hot in my chest and my hand curls into a fist, ready to smash into his face, but his next words stop me. “You’re not going anywhere.”

AKA Don’t fucking move from that spot or else.

I roll my eyes discreetly and swallow down the retort ready on my tongue. It’s no use fighting him, especially in front of a crowd like this.

“Edward, don’t you have a daughter starting at Blackridge too? Is she here? Why don’t you bring her over,” he says, turning to the man beside me.

The man in question nods, moving off into the crowd, presumably to find his daughter.

Dad continues conversing with the rest of the group, his mask of a perfect, benevolent businessman flawlessly in place. I watch as he laughs and gestures when someone compliments him, disgust building at his obvious fake demeanor.

If only they knew how coldly calculating he is, how he uses them for his benefit, butters them up with lavish parties, nice words, and money, all to get his way.

And it always works.

Even on Mom.

She was blinded by his charm, by the allure of the life he promised — a life of luxury and comfort, where every problem could be smoothed over with a smile and a signature on a check.

But I knew better. I’d seen the cracks beneath the polished surface. The way he manipulated, controlled, and played everyone like pieces on a chessboard. Mom thought he loved her, but to him, she was just another pawn, easily discarded when no longer useful.

He didn’t bat an eye when the police came to inform him about Mom’s suicide. ‘Tragic,’ he said, before he continued about his day, as if something truly tragic didn’t happen. As if his wife and the mother of his children didn’t overdose on sleeping pills.

It didn’t matter because everything was a game to him.

And I am his heir to the game. Whether I like it or not.

It isn’t just about inheriting the wealth, the company, or the family name.

It’s about becoming like him. A master manipulator, someone who knows how to pull the strings from behind the scenes without ever getting their hands dirty.

I’m groomed for this. Every conversation, every event, every person I meet has a purpose.

I’m expected to observe, to learn how to bend people’s wills without them even realizing it.

But it comes with a price. Every lesson he teaches chips away at the humanity inside me. The more I follow in his footsteps, the more I feel trapped in his shadow, a reflection of everything I despise. He is molding me into his image, and I hate him for it, but I can’t break free.

Because to him, I’m not just his son. I’m his successor. His project.

And I am sick of it.

My thoughts fade when the conversation returns to me once again.

“So, Thatcher, what are you majoring in?” one of the women in the group asks.

“Business,” I reply.

“Just like his dad,” my father says, clapping me on the back again as laughs erupt from the party.

I flinch slightly at his touch, forcing a polite smile. I need to leave and see my dove again.

The excuse is already on my tongue when Dad says, “Oh! Edward’s back!”

I turn and the world tilts before righting itself again.

Dove.

Edward stops in front of the group, a wide smile on his face as he motions to her. “Mr. Van Doren, this is Rhea, my stepdaughter.”

Rhea.

She offers a tight, polite smile, and takes my dad’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

Her voice is high and clear, wrapping around me with a sweetness that is irresistible.

Dad’s smile grows as he shakes her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Rhea. What a fine young woman.”

She nods once. Her polite smile intact as she murmurs, “Thank you.”

An intense jealousy fills me, and I want to rip his hand from her. But the moment she turns, her eyes meet mine, and it all dies.

The ground threatens to start spinning, and I try to hold on for dear life.

Her porcelain-like skin is smooth and unblemished, catching the soft light of the room. Dark waves of hair fall down her back, framing her face in a way that makes my breath catch in my chest. Her eyes, when they meet mine, are a soft, muted amber, full of life and ferocity.

“Rhea, this is Thatcher, Mr. Van Doren’s son. He’s the one I was telling you about,” Edward’s voice breaks me out of the trance her gaze warped me in.

She tilts her head back to look up at me, the rigidity of her posture betraying her nice and friendly tone. “Nice to meet you.”

The words die in my throat as I stare at her lips as she speaks.

What a pretty fucking mouth.

I can imagine them around my cock, the wild look in her eyes melting into a soft, eager expression as she savors every inch of me…chokes…begs for my cum.

Heat pools at my groin and my cock presses painfully against my zipper.

Fuck…

“Thatcher goes to Blackridge. Maybe you two could be friends.”

Friends.

I can’t stop my wry smile at that word. If only he knew all the dirty things I’m envisioning of his stepdaughter. He would hide her very far away from me. Not that he could keep her hidden for long.

She is not impressed, instead she seems rather uncomfortable, her gaze darting away as if she can sense the intensity of my thoughts. The flush creeping up her neck only fuels my desire and I feel a surge of adrenaline course through me.

I want to close the distance between us and touch her, wrap her luscious hair around my fist and claim her mouth, thrust my hard cock against her, so she can see what she’s doing to me.

Tension crackles, and she shifts, rubbing at her collarbone, a small awkward smile on her face.

“Please excuse me, I need to find my mom,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I watch as she steps back, her retreating figure igniting a desperate urge in me. The urge to claim, to possess, to have her by my side forever.

The intensity almost takes my breath away yet leaves me feeling exhilarated.

I watch as she weaves through the crowd, each step taking her farther and farther away from my reach.

Fly away little dove…soon you won’t be able to.

The liquor burns my throat as it goes down, the warmth it leaves in my chest is soothing, a brief reprieve from the tension twisting inside me. I tilt the glass, watching the amber liquid swirl, wishing it could dull the other burn—the one sparked by her.

The party winds down, the chatter and laughter fading into the background, and I sit alone, surrounded by half-empty glasses and discarded conversations.

The dim lighting casts shadows across the room, but all I can think about is her—how she looked at me, how she walked away.

I grip the glass tighter, the edges of my control fraying.

The night feels heavier now, colder, and no amount of alcohol can drown the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Everyone’s gone, but I’m still here, stuck in my thoughts, replaying every moment, every word, every missed opportunity.

The stillness of the room only amplifies the growing need in my chest. A need that threatens my sanity and consumes my every rational thought.

It’s more than just wanting her—it’s a hunger, an obsession that claws at me from the inside, demanding to be fed.

I drain my glass and reach for the bottle at my elbow, barely registering the embossed, expensive looking symbols etched on it as I refill my glass again.

A familiar voice stops me, “Tell me that isn’t Dad’s very expensive, ‘one glass in a blue moon’ whiskey?”

Archie stands, a few feet from where I sit, his hands in his pockets. He grins at me, the dim light bouncing off his short blond hair.

“Maybe,” I respond, taking a sip. “Tastes expensive.”

“Dad is going to kill you, you know?” he says, claiming the seat beside me. I ignore him as he stretches his hands over his head and groans.

“Pour me one would you? It’s been a shit night.”

I do as he asks, picking a new glass and splashing some alcohol into it before sliding it over to him. “What?”

“Besides Dad trying to set me up with some diamond mining heiress that’s barely of age, not much.” He pauses to sip at his drink before giving me a once over. “Seems you had a better night than me.”

I shrug, draining my glass once again. Rhea’s defiant gaze flashes in front of my eyes, and I can’t help a grin. “You could say that.”

Archie raises an eyebrow at my grin, his curiosity piqued. “Oh? Who caught your attention this time?”

I lean back in my chair, letting the warmth of the alcohol settle in. “Her name’s Rhea.”

“Rhea,” Archie repeats, rolling the name around as if it holds some hidden meaning. “And?”

“And she’s…” Words feel inadequate, but how do I explain her? The way her presence lingers, the pull she has on me. “She’s not like the others.”

Archie chuckles, sipping his whiskey. “You always say that.”

“I don’t,” I cut him off, my voice sharper than intended. “This is different.”

He tilts his head, his gaze narrowing as he studies me. “Different how?”

I don’t answer right away, the memory of Rhea’s piercing eyes, her cold politeness, and the rigidity in her stance playing on a loop in my mind. The way she made me feel—restless, unsettled, hungry.

“She’s a challenge,” I finally say, my voice quieter now, almost contemplative.

Archie smirks, leaning back in his chair. “A challenge. Sounds…” He takes a sip of his drink.

I smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Dangerous, maybe. But I’ve never backed down from one before.”

He raises his glass in a toast. “Here’s to another one of Thatcher’s conquests.”

I don’t raise mine. The word “conquest” feels wrong when it comes to my dove. There’s something more at play, something deeper that I can’t yet put my finger on. But I’ll figure it out. One way or another, she’ll be mine.

“I’m not sure she’ll be as easy as the others,” I murmur, half to myself.

Archie shrugs, tipping back the last of his whiskey. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”

His words echo in the empty room, but I’m no longer listening. My mind is already racing ahead, planning, calculating.

She’s a challenge, yes.

But she doesn’t stand a chance.