The Grand Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art faded into a glittering, meaningless blur for Alaric Sterling. He stood at the edge of the Egyptian corridor, his chest heaving as if he had just sprinted for miles. In his hand, the small, water-stained navy silk scarf felt heavier than a mountain. She had looked right through him. The woman who possessed Evangeline's face, Evangeline's voice, and the exact, haunting scent of his dead wife had dismissed him with the cold precision of a sniper.
VivianShen walked back into the golden light of the main hall, her emerald Valentino gown sweeping the polished marble. Her heart was beating a fraction faster than normal, a lingering side effect of the suffocating proximity to her former husband. But she locked the treacherous emotion away. She needed to maintain absolute, terrifying control.
Julian Vane was waiting near the grand staircase, a fresh crystal flute of champagne in his hand. His medical eyes, trained to spot the most microscopic signs of physical trauma, immediately noticed the slight tension in her delicate jawline.
"He showed you the scarf," Julian said quietly, offering her the glass.
"He is clinging to wreckage," Vivian replied, taking a measured, elegant sip. The cold liquid grounded her. "But his logical brain is fracturing. He is starting to doubt his own sanity, Julian. It is time to push him completely over the edge."
Across the room, the crowd parted once more. Alaric emerged from the corridor shadows. His face was a mask of rigid, aristocratic fury, but his eyes—those stormy, dominating grey eyes—were locked onto Vivian with an intensity that made the surrounding elite socialites instinctively step back. He looked like a starving wolf who had finally found his prey.
The live orchestra shifted tempos, beginning a slow, sweeping, impossibly romantic Viennese waltz. Couples began to drift toward the center of the floor, a sea of diamonds and silk.
Alaric aggressively adjusted his bespoke cuffs, his intention painfully clear. He was coming for her. He was going to claim a dance, to force her into his arms, and to prove to the world—and to his own shattered soul—that she belonged to him.
Before Alaric could take his third step, Julian set his glass down. With smooth, predatory grace, he stepped entirely into Vivian's personal space, seamlessly blocking Alaric's path.
"May I have this dance, my beautiful queen?" Julian asked, his voice deliberately loud enough to carry over the strings of the violins.
Vivian caught the flicker of pure, unadulterated rage crossing Alaric's face just yards away. She smiled—a genuine, dazzling, breathtaking smile that she had never once given to the King of Aviation during their three-year marriage. "Of course, Julian."
Julian led her to the center of the floor. He pulled her flush against his chest, his hand resting intimately low on the exposed curve of her back, right where the silk of her dress dipped. It was a possessive, unmistakable, public claim.
As they spun to the music, Julian leaned down, his lips brushing sensually against her ear. "He is staring at us, Vivian. If looks could kill, I would be bleeding out on this marble right now."
"Let him stare," Vivian whispered back, her gaze fixed over Julian's broad shoulder, meeting Alaric's burning eyes directly. "He spent three years ignoring my existence. Now, he will spend the rest of his miserable life watching someone else cherish what he threw away."
For Alaric, the sight of Julian's hand on her bare skin was a physical agony infinitely worse than a plane crash. He had always been a man of absolute, terrifying control. When he wanted a rival airline, he orchestrated a hostile takeover. When he wanted a woman, he commanded her. But standing there, watching the woman who wore his wife's face laughing in the arms of a rival, he realized how utterly powerless he was.
She is Eva, Alaric's mind screamed, rejecting all earthly logic. And he is touching my wife.
The jealousy was a living, breathing monster tearing through his chest. It tasted like ash and copper. He gripped the edge of a cocktail table so hard his knuckles turned white, the crystal glasses rattling from his tremor. He wanted to march onto the floor, tear Julian away, and drag her out of the building. But he had no rights. He had signed them away in blood on a divorce paper five years ago.
Seraphina suddenly appeared at his elbow, having recovered enough to try and salvage the evening. "Alaric, darling," she cooed, reaching for his arm. "Let's dance. People are watching us."
Alaric did not even look at her. He violently snatched his arm away, his voice a lethal, vibrating growl. "Don't touch me, Seraphina. Get out of my sight."
Seraphina flinched, shrinking back into the crowd like a frightened animal.
As the waltz reached its soaring crescendo, Julian dipped Vivian deeply. She laughed—a melodic, beautiful sound that echoed through the hall. It was a sound Alaric had never caused, a sound that belonged entirely to the Third Man.
Alaric turned on his heel and stormed out of the museum, the freezing night air failing to cool the inferno raging inside him. The King of Aviation had finally found the one thing his billions could not buy. And he was willing to burn down his entire empire to get her back.