In the background of a photograph from an elite equestrian event-dated only three years ago, 2023-there was a face I would know anywhere.
It wasn't Maya.
It was the man. The one I'd seen her arguing with. The one with the sharp, predatory features and the eyes that looked like they had been forged in a furnace. Even in a candid shot taken only a few years back, when he would have been our age, the intensity, the sheer, dark gravity of his presence, was unmistakable.
"Cole? Are you even listening to me? I was asking about your thoughts on the winter gala in Paris," Isabella said, her hand tightening on my sleeve.
"One second," I said, my voice sounding strangled.
I stepped away from her, ignoring the flash of annoyance on her face. I walked toward the photo, my heart beginning to
