Face To Face

The Sterling Gala was more than a social event.

It was a war zone.

A place where power was displayed like fine art, where alliances were made and broken with a single glance, where the rich and ruthless gathered to remind the world that they owned it.

It was Killian Thorne's domain.

And tonight, Evangeline Sinclair was walking straight into it.

She paused at the top of the grand staircase, the room stretching out beneath her. The chandeliers dripped with light, casting everything in a golden glow. The scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey lingered in the air, mixing with the quiet murmur of New York's elite.

They had all noticed her.

Even before she descended a single step, heads turned, conversations faltered, champagne flutes froze midair.

"Is that—?"

*"No. She wouldn't dare—"

"But she did."

Evangeline let the moment linger. Let them see her.

She had once ruled this city with elegance and fire, had been the woman who could command a room without saying a word. Then she had been ruined, erased, forgotten.

Not anymore.

She adjusted the diamond cuff on her wrist, the motion slow, deliberate. Her dress clung to her like a second skin—black, with a slit that whispered of danger, the fabric shimmering under the light like the edge of a blade.

Then she moved.

Each step down the staircase was a message.

She was back. And she wasn't leaving.

A waiter appeared at her side, offering a tray of champagne. She took a glass, not breaking stride, her eyes already scanning the room. She wasn't here to play small games.

She was here for him.

And then—she felt it.

That shift in the air. The awareness that curled around her like smoke.

Her pulse slowed. The background noise faded.

She knew before she saw him.

Killian Thorne was watching her.

She turned her head just slightly, enough to let her gaze sweep across the ballroom, past the glittering elite, past the onlookers drinking in her return.

And then—there he was.

Tall. Dark. Unshaken.

Killian stood near the bar, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his posture casual yet commanding. The black suit was perfectly tailored, the crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, just enough to hint at the dangerous edge beneath his polished exterior.

But it was his eyes that stopped her breath.

Dark. Amused. And something else.

Knowing.

Like he had been waiting for her.

A slow, deliberate smirk curved his lips, and he lifted his glass slightly in a silent toast.

It was a challenge.

It was an acknowledgment.

And Evangeline was not the type to back down.

She lifted her own glass in response, the smallest tilt of her wrist. The champagne was cool against her lips, but she barely tasted it.

Instead, she walked straight toward him.

The crowd seemed to part for her, as if they sensed the inevitable collision, the storm that had been brewing for seven years.

Killian didn't move.

Didn't shift.

Didn't blink.

He simply waited—like a man who already owned the game.

By the time she reached him, the air between them was electric.

She placed her half-empty champagne flute on the bar beside him, her movements controlled, effortless. Then, finally, she met his gaze head-on, her chin lifting slightly.

"Killian," she said, her voice smooth as silk, sharp as steel.

He took his time answering, letting the moment stretch between them. Then—

"Evangeline."

The way he said her name.

Like a man savoring a long-forgotten taste.

Like he had never truly let her go.

She refused to let it shake her.

"Enjoying the show?" she asked, arching a brow.

A ghost of a smirk played at his lips. "Immensely."

Her fingers curled slightly against the bar, but she gave nothing away.

"I imagine you weren't expecting me tonight," she continued.

His gaze flickered over her—slow, assessing, intimate.

"On the contrary," he murmured, sipping his whiskey. "I knew you'd come."

The certainty in his voice sent a sharp pulse through her, but she ignored it. This wasn't seven years ago.

"You always did love theatrics," she mused, lifting her glass to her lips. "But you'll find I'm not so easily played anymore."

Killian chuckled, low and smooth. "Oh, darling." He leaned in just slightly, enough that she could feel the heat of his presence, enough that his next words brushed the shell of her ear.

"You were never easy to play. That's what made you irresistible."

A shiver ghosted down her spine.

Damn him.

She forced herself to hold his gaze, to ignore the way his voice still had the power to reach inside her chest and wrap around something she thought she had buried.

She tilted her glass in a mocking toast before taking another slow sip.

"Enjoy the party, Killian," she murmured. "It might be your last."

His smirk deepened. "Careful, Evangeline."

She set her glass down.

"I'd hate for you to start something you can't finish."

The words curled between them, thick with promise.

She leaned in just slightly, her lips brushing the rim of her glass as she murmured,

"Oh, I plan to finish it, Thorne."

And then—she turned and walked away.

Not quickly. Not hesitantly.

But with the absolute certainty that he was still watching her.

Let the games begin.