BEHIND HIS COLD EYES

Amelia Hart had never believed in moderation. That belief was currently proven by the empty champagne flute in her hand, the second cocktail sweating against her palm, the loud music rattling in her bones, and the way her heels felt optional rather than necessary. Designer of the Year. The words still felt unreal, floating somewhere above her head like glitter that refused to settle. She laughed again, too loudly, head tipping back as her best friend screamed in her ear over the music. “You did it,” Zara shouted, dramatic hands flying everywhere. Zara was six feet of limbs, confidence, and absolutely no indoor voice. A model by profession and a professional menace by personality. “You actually did it. Do you understand what this means?” “It means I’m rich,” Amelia said, blinking slowly. “Like… emotionally rich.” “That is not what that means.” “It means I can buy ugly things just because I want to,” Amelia added thoughtfully, taking a sip of her drink and immediately regretting nothing. Around them, the club pulsed with celebration. Industry people, designers, models, critics, friends of friends who pretended they had always believed in her. The lights were too bright, the bass too heavy, the air thick with perfume and heat and champagne. Her dress shimmered silver under the lights, clinging to her like it had been sewn directly onto her skin. She had chosen it herself, of course. A quiet act of rebellion against every safe silhouette she had been advised to wear. Tonight was not for safety. Tonight was for recklessness. Her phone buzzed again. Amelia squinted at it, pulling it closer to her face as if proximity would help her drunk eyes focus. Lucas. She grinned. “Speak of the devil,” she muttered, answering the call and immediately holding the phone away from her ear. “Lucaaaaas.” “Amelia,” Lucas’s voice came through, warm and indulgent even through the bad connection. “Why do I hear music that sounds like my credit card crying?” She laughed so hard she nearly dropped the phone. “You’re in the UK. Go to sleep.” “It is not bedtime. It is worry time. Why did you spend that much money?” “Because,” she said, spinning slowly where she stood, nearly knocking into Zara, “I won an award.” “I know you won an award. I watched it live. I screamed. I told my coworkers I raised you.” “You did raise me.” “I did,” he agreed proudly. “Which is why I am asking why you are celebrating like you robbed a bank.” Amelia leaned against the bar, feeling pleasantly unsteady. “Because you told me to.” “I told you to celebrate. I did not tell you to declare war on financial responsibility.” “You literally sent me more money,” she said, lowering her voice as if this were confidential information. “Like… a lot more money.” Lucas sighed. “You are my spoiled sister.” “And you love it.” “I tolerate it,” he corrected. “Where are you?” “At a club.” “Of course you are.” “With important people.” “Are they important or are they loud?” “Both.” Lucas hesitated. “Are you drinking?” “No.” There was silence. “Amelia.” “I’m hydrating,” she added quickly. “With… adult juice.” He laughed despite himself. “I swear, one day you will give me grey hair.” “One day I will buy you hair,” she said generously. “I’m Designer of the Year.” “Yes, you are,” Lucas said softly, pride creeping into his voice. “I’m proud of you.” The words hit her harder than the alcohol. Her smile softened. “Thank you.” “Just be careful,” he added. “And text me when you get home.” “I live to obey.” “You absolutely do not.” They hung up, and Amelia stared at her phone for a second longer than necessary before slipping it back into her clutch. Zara was watching her with narrowed eyes and a grin. “Your brother?” “My favorite human,” Amelia said. “And my personal bank.” “As he should be,” Zara said solemnly. “Now. Drink.” Amelia obeyed. Time blurred after that. There were more drinks. Too many laughs. Someone congratulated her and she cried a little. Someone else asked for a collaboration and she agreed enthusiastically and then forgot their name immediately. Zara danced on a platform. Amelia danced on a chair and was politely but firmly asked to come down. Her head felt full, buzzing, chaotic. Thoughts overlapped, happiness tangled with exhaustion, excitement with something dangerously close to emptiness. I did it, she thought vaguely. I actually did it. The noise started to feel too loud. The lights too sharp. Her chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with the dress. “I need air,” she announced, mostly to herself. Zara waved at her distractedly, already mid-argument with a man who claimed to understand fashion. Amelia slipped through the crowd, wobbling slightly, apologizing excessively to people she bumped into. Outside, the night hit her like cold water. She sucked in a breath, bracing her hands on her knees, laughing softly to herself. Okay. Breathe. The city was alive even outside the club. Cars passed. Laughter spilled onto the sidewalk. Neon signs reflected on wet pavement. Amelia straightened slowly, smoothing her dress, trying to ground herself. You are fine, she told herself. You are celebrating. This is normal. She took a few steps away from the entrance, heels clicking unevenly. That was when she saw him. He stood a little apart from the chaos, phone pressed to his ear, posture straight, unmoving. Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark coat. His presence felt… still. Like the night bent slightly around him. Amelia frowned. Who stands like that? He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t swaying. Wasn’t shouting to be heard. He was just there, calm and composed, eyes sharp, voice low. “…no,” he was saying, tone clipped. “That is not acceptable. Fix it.” She squinted at him, head tilting. Rude. Also… annoyingly handsome. His face was carved, all hard lines and control. Dark hair neatly styled. Jaw clenched as if the world personally irritated him. The light from the streetlamp caught the edge of his cheekbone, the severity of his expression. Amelia felt something spark. Not attraction exactly. Curiosity. Who looks that annoyed outside a club? She stepped closer without thinking. He glanced at her. Just a flick of his eyes. Brief. Assessing. Something in her bristled. Oh no you didn’t, sir. “Excuse you,” she said, pointing vaguely in his direction. “You’re standing in my air.” His brow furrowed. “I’m on a call.” “And I’m breathing,” she replied cheerfully. “We’re both busy.” He turned slightly away from her, speaking into the phone again. “I’ll handle it tomorrow. Do not call me again tonight.” The call ended. Silence settled between them. He turned fully toward her. Up close, he was even more infuriating. Taller than she had thought. Dark eyes that seemed to look through her rather than at her. “Yes,” he said. “What is it?” Amelia blinked. The audacity. “What is it,” she repeated. “Is that how you talk to people?” “Usually,” he said. “It’s efficient.” She laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “You must be fun at parties.” “I don’t attend parties.” “Shocking.” He studied her now, gaze lingering, not leering, just… measuring. She felt suddenly aware of herself, the silver dress, the flushed cheeks, the slight sway she was trying unsuccessfully to control. “You’re drunk,” he said. She gasped. “How dare you.” “You smell like champagne.” “That’s called success,” she said primly. “Look it up.” A corner of his mouth twitched before he caught it. Interesting. “What do you want,” he asked again, voice lower now. Amelia considered him seriously, tapping her chin. “I don’t know yet. You were just… standing there. Looking like a grumpy statue.” “I was on a business call.” “At a club?” “I don’t drink.” “That’s tragic.” He sighed. “Go back inside.” “No.” “Why not?” She smiled sweetly. “Because you told me to.” Something flickered in his eyes. Irritation, yes, but beneath it, something else. Interest. “My name is Amelia,” she said suddenly, sticking out her hand. “And I won an award tonight.” He looked at her hand. Did not take it. “Congratulations.” “Thank you,” she said, unbothered. “Your turn.” He hesitated, then said, “Kaiden Blackwood.” The name landed heavy. It sounded expensive. Powerful. Like it belonged on buildings and contracts and headlines. “Well, Kaiden Blackwood,” Amelia said, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially, “you look like you could use a drink.” “I don’t drink.” “I know,” she said, smiling wider. “That’s why you need one.” He stared at her, something unreadable passing through his expression. “This is a mistake,” he said quietly. She grinned. “I’m excellent at those.” And somewhere in the back of his mind, Kaiden thought, against all reason, that this chaotic, reckless girl was about to ruin his night. He had no idea she was about to ruin much more than that.