Beneath his wrath

Don't turn around. Just breathe."

Georgia Vance muttered the words to herself as she slipped through the grand marble entrance of the Whitmore Foundation's annual charity gala. Her heels clicked across the gleaming floor, echoing in time with her thudding heart. She wore a deep emerald gown, satin hugging her curves and modest in design, but elegant enough to blend with the Manhattan elite. The scent of roses and champagne hung thick in the air, mingling with the laughter of women in diamonds and the smooth chuckle of men in tuxedos.

She hadn't planned to be here. Hell, she had sworn she'd never return to this world, the one she had once belonged to, the one she'd fled with a shattered heart and too many secrets.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. She turned toward the balcony, craving fresh air and space.

Then he walked in.

Weston Clay.

As if summoned by her dread, the man who haunted every corner of her memory stepped through the arched doors with the careless command of a king. Broad-shouldered and tall, dressed in a classic black tux that did nothing to hide the sinew and power beneath, he moved with lethal grace. His square jaw was shadowed with a day's worth of stubble, his mouth unsmiling. But it was his eyes, sharp, grey, and unflinchingly focused that found her in seconds.

Georgia's breath caught. The room melted away. Ten years had passed, but the burn in her chest was instant, raw.

He crossed the ballroom, every step measured and slow, weaving through laughing donors and bejeweled socialites without a glance. His eyes never left hers.

"Georgia."

His voice was velvet wrapped around steel. And still, it hit her like a slap.

She raised her chin, forcing her limbs to remain calm, unaffected. "Weston. Didn't expect to see you here."

"That makes one of us."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile a man gave before pulling a trigger.

"We should talk," he said, already gesturing toward the corridor beyond the gallery.

Georgia hesitated, and he saw it. Of course he did. He always read her better than anyone. He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear.

"Unless you're afraid."

She wasn't. Not of him. But she was terrified of what he might say.

Still, she nodded.

The corridor beyond the gallery was quieter, cooler, lined with mirrors that stretched to the ceiling and chandeliers that cast golden shadows.

Weston leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her like she was prey.

"You look good, Georgia. No correction. You look dangerous."

"You didn't pull me out here for flattery. Get to the point."

"Still direct. I like that."

He paused, eyes narrowing. "I knew you'd be here."

She froze. "What?"

"I knew." He pushed off the wall. "Months ago. I've kept track of you. Every step. Every city. Every change in your name. And when I saw the guest list... well, I made sure I got my invite."

Her stomach churned. "So this wasn't coincidence?"

"Nothing I do is coincidental."

Georgia's chest ached. Ten years ago, he'd vanished without a trace. No letter. No explanation. And now, he was admitting to tracking her like a ghost.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why now?"

He stepped closer, every inch of him pulsing with restrained intensity. "Because I need you. And because I never stopped wanting you."

She laughed, bitter. "You left me, Weston. You broke me."

"And you think you didn't break me too?" His voice cracked like a whip. "You think walking away from you was easy? God, Georgia. You think I didn't bleed for years after that night?"

"Then why?" she snapped. "Why did you disappear?"

He stared at her, jaw clenched. Something flickered in his gaze. Pain. Regret. Rage.

"Because if I had stayed... you would've been in danger."

Before she could press, he stepped back, masking his expression again.

"Come with me tomorrow. We'll talk. Really talk."

"Why should I?"

His reply was soft, lethal. "Because you still wear my ring around your neck."