The first time I see Kai Voss again, he’s standing beneath a chandelier worth more than my entire apartment building.
Crystal light fractures over his sharp cheekbones, catching the cold planes of his face and turning him into something almost inhuman—untouchable, immaculate, godlike.
Three years ago, that face was on every business magazine in Los Angeles.
Three years ago, that face destroyed my family.
I tighten my grip on my champagne flute until the thin stem threatens to snap.
Breathe, Sylvia.
Tonight isn’t about grief. It’s about execution.
The Beverly Hills estate hosting the private fundraiser is dripping in old money and newer corruption. Marble floors polished to mirrors. Women in couture gowns pretending not to compete. Men in tailored suits pretending not to calculate.
And in the center of it all—Kai Voss.
Thirty. Tech magnate. Film investor. Ruthless architect of corporate annihilation.
My parents called him ambitious.
I call him a murderer.
I smooth down the simple ivory dress hugging my frame. It’s elegant, but not extravagant. Intentional. I need to look like I’m trying too hard without quite succeeding.
A fallen heiress clawing for relevance.
Not a woman planning to dismantle an empire from the inside.
He laughs at something a senator says, the sound low and controlled. He doesn’t throw his head back like other men. He doesn’t expose his throat. Kai Voss never exposes anything.
I study him the way I’ve studied his company for the past two years. The slight tilt of his head when he’s bored. The stillness before he delivers a cutting remark. The way everyone subtly leans toward him, as if proximity might grant them power.
You took everything from me.
Now I’ll take everything from you.
I count down from three and step forward.
Timing is everything.
Just as a server brushes past him, I pivot on my heel and “accidentally” collide with Kai’s arm.
Champagne splashes over the front of his black suit.
Gasps ripple around us.
Perfect.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, letting my voice tremble. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see— I wasn’t looking—”
I reach for a napkin, hands shaking just enough to sell it. My lashes lower. Submissive. Flustered. Harmless.
The room waits for his reaction.
Kai doesn’t move.
Slowly, deliberately, his gaze drops to where my fingers hover near his chest. Then it lifts to my face.
And locks there.
Recognition flashes.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Ice slides down my spine.
He knows.
Of course he knows.
Kai Voss doesn’t forget liabilities.
“Sylvia Bennett,” he says smoothly, as if we’re old acquaintances instead of sworn enemies. “I was wondering when you’d reappear.”
My pulse stutters—but I force confusion into my expression.
“You… know me?”
A beat.
His mouth curves—not warm, not kind. Predatory.
“Your father once tried to sue one of my subsidiaries,” he says mildly. “Unsuccessfully.”
The understatement nearly makes me laugh.
Unsuccessfully. As if bankrupting Bennett Holdings overnight and triggering a federal investigation had been a polite disagreement over paperwork.
As if my father hadn’t died of a heart attack the same night the charges went public.
As if my mother hadn’t followed him into the ground six months later.
I lower my eyes again.
“That was a long time ago,” I murmur. “I’m not here about that.”
“Then why are you here?”
His voice is quiet. Dangerous.
I let vulnerability seep into my tone.
“I needed… opportunities.”
There it is. The bait.
His gaze sharpens, assessing. Measuring.
Around us, the crowd pretends not to listen.
“You always were ambitious,” he says. “Even at twenty-four.”
You destroyed me at twenty-four.
“I’ve had to be,” I reply softly.
Silence stretches between us—charged, electric, lethal.
Then he does something I didn’t anticipate.
He steps closer.
Too close.
The scent of expensive cologne and something darker wraps around me. His fingers lift, brushing lightly under my chin, tilting my face up.
The gesture is intimate.
Possessive.
“Ambition can be dangerous without protection,” he says. “Los Angeles eats women like you alive.”
I swallow.
“Then maybe I need better company.”
For one second—one single, terrifying second—his eyes gleam with something that looks like amusement.
Or approval.
“Perhaps you do,” he murmurs.
He slips a black-and-gold card into my palm.