Ruin Me Gently

Chapter 2

-Sable-

The room glittered like a stage set for gods. Crystal chandeliers rained light down on velvet-draped tables, champagne flutes clinked like wind chimes, and the air pulsed with the scent of power and desire. Everyone here had secrets—they just wore them in diamonds.

And I was one of them now.

My heels clicked confidently across the marble, but my pulse was a ticking bomb. A black velvet mask hid half my face, but I felt exposed in every other way. Eyes found me—men’s, women’s, the security guy by the door pretending not to stare. Good. Let them look.

London Brinchfort’s world was intoxicatingly rich and rotten, and I had just slipped into it through the side door.

The invitation had come anonymously, slipped into the hand of a woman I’d bribed at the Whisper Club. An elite-only gala at the private Brinchfort estate. Masks required. Identities fluid. Perfect for me.

The host? None other than the Brinchforts.

I wasn’t here as Sable they knew. Tonight, I was danger wrapped in silk, lips painted the color of blood, wearing the stolen name of a Russian heiress no one dared question. And I had a mission

I found my mark by the fireplace—Caden Rooks. London’s right hand in his security empire. Wealthy, reckless, predictable. He liked brunettes with confidence and legs that didn’t quit. Lucky for him, I came prepared.

I grazed his arm as I passed. “Is this seat taken?”

He turned, caught off guard, then intrigued. “Not anymore.”

He poured me champagne. I let my fingers brush his when I took it. He asked me my name—I gave him one that belonged to a dead socialite in Milan. His laugh was easy, but his eyes watched me like he was trying to place me. I smiled wider. Let him try.

“Are you new in the circle?” he asked.

“I tend to circulate quietly,” I purred.

We talked politics, art, fast cars. I made up stories like I was born for them. But what I really wanted to know was what he was hiding.

Caden didn’t disappoint. With two glasses of Dom in him, he started talking about Brinchfort business—the kind that never made headlines. Offshore accounts. Silent partners in unstable regions. Things that sounded like leverage.

“London keeps his cards close,” Caden said with a chuckle, “but even kings slip when they’re drunk on power.”

My heart fluttered—not from the information, but from the sound of his name.

London.

Still looming, still untouchable. Until tonight

I sensed him before I saw him. The temperature of the room shifted. Conversations softened. And then there he was.

London Brinchfort.

Standing at the top of the stairs like a carved shadow, dressed in black and mystery, no mask—because men like him didn’t hide. The air cinched around my ribs.

I ducked my face slightly, let my hair fall over my cheek.

Don’t see me. Not yet.

But the universe, cruel and bored, had other plans.

“Excuse me,” Caden murmured. “London wants a word.”

Shit.

I stood slowly. My blood rushed hot and sharp. This wasn’t part of the plan—at least not yet. But I turned, expression calm, spine straight, heart screaming.

He was waiting by the gallery entrance, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he studied me like I was a riddle he was close to solving.

“Miss…?”

“Volkova,” I said softly, channeling the character. “Lena Volkova.”

“Russian?”

“By birth. American by bad luck.”

He didn’t smile. He stepped closer.

“Have we met?”

His voice was thunder—low, lethal, unforgettable. My knees nearly buckled.

“Not officially,” I said, tilting my head. “But I’ve heard… so much.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Then—

“Walk with me.”

It wasn’t a request

We moved through the crowd like opposing magnets—drawn, resisting, inevitable. He led me to a quiet balcony overlooking the estate. The night air was cold, but I burned under his gaze.

“You don’t belong here,” he said flatly.

I raised a brow. “Because I’m not wearing your name?”

“Because you’re playing a game you don’t understand.”

I stepped closer. “And yet, here you are—playing with me.”

His jaw tensed. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition? Anger? A memory clawing at his gut?

I tested him. “Tell me, London… do you always chase ghosts?”

He blinked slowly.

“You remind me of someone,” he murmured.

“Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“Depends. Did she ruin me?”

He said it like a dare.

I smiled. “Maybe she’s not finished yet.”

The silence that followed could shatter glass. His hand moved slightly—like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t trust himself. Good. Let him doubt. Let him burn.

Because tonight, I wasn’t the broken girl who poured wine over her head while the world laughed.

Tonight, I was the fire, and I was here to collect.