Beau sat very still, listening.
He'd known Jaynara Stevens for years—knew her sharp pride, her terrifying composure, the way she carried herself like a blade kept deliberately sheathed. He had never imagined that beneath all that clean, unyielding strength, she'd buried something so soft it could ruin her.
Something so foolishly devoted.
"So why didn't you go find her?" Beau asked at last, pouring himself a drink as well, settling into the role of a patient witness. "You never thought of looking for her?"
He was good at this—at staying quiet, at letting people speak themselves raw, at guiding a conversation without forcing it open. He never demanded; he simply waited, and reminded you the door was there.
Jayna stared down at her whiskey. The sphere of ice had melted into a thin, diluted coldness, the drink losing its bite the longer she held it.
She didn't answer for a long time.
Then, like a confession dragged out of her by gravity rather than will, she said, "I think about it even in my dreams. But I… I don't have the right."
How could she not have thought about it?
At first, when she'd been sent abroad, she hadn't been allowed to contact anyone—rules like chains, supervision like a shadow. Later, when time loosened its grip, something else tightened instead: fear.
The longer she stayed away, the more impossible it felt to reach out. As if her hand had been hovering over a doorbell for years, trembling, unable to press.
Beau looked at her face. Even behind those pale-tinted sunglasses, he could see the grief pulling her under. She was drunk—deeply. If she were sober, she'd rather swallow glass than spill this kind of heartache.
"Jayna," he said gently, catching her wrist, firm but careful. "You've had enough."
"I'm not drunk." She peeled his hand away, stubborn as a child and fiercer than one. "I know my limit."
And then she tipped the last of the whiskey into herself like she was trying to drown something that refused to die.
Maybe it was because her cold still hadn't fully gone; her throat scraped faintly as she swallowed. It hurt.
She drank anyway.
Because only when the world tilted—only when she fell far enough into the fog—would that person in her dreams come close enough to smile at her clearly.
"For eleven years…" Jayna's voice turned rough, the words spilling out with a strange, brittle calm. "I can't forget her even if I want to. I miss her so much I feel like I'm going insane. Do you know what that feels like?"
Her fingers tightened around the glass, as if it might anchor her.
"After shooting all day, every cell in my body is exhausted. But the moment I think of her, the sleepiness disappears. It's like I'm cursed. Sophie always says I'm perfect at everything except one thing—" She gave a small, humorless laugh. "—my dark circles. Every time, she has to cover them with heavy concealer just to make me look human."
Behind the lenses, remembered tears traced down her cheeks. Beau's chest pinched. He grabbed a tissue quickly and leaned in, dabbing at her face.
"My sweet girl," he murmured, half-scolding, half-soothing. "Don't cry. Wipe it off. Don't let anyone see you like this."
Jayna lowered her head, tissue in her hand—but she didn't wipe. She was too far gone now. Her head swam; her body felt heavy, thick with exhaustion.
And there it was again—like a knife turned in her mind:
That image of the woman in a white coat, standing in front of her.
Resting somewhere behind her eyes.
Jayna grew restless, irritated at her own skin. She shrugged off her coat and pushed it toward Beau, wordlessly asking him to keep it.
When Beau refused to pour her more, she reached for the bottle herself.
"I'm calling Tom to pick you up," Beau said, his tone turning practical, alert. "Or I'll take you back."
Jayna propped her cheek on her hand, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She shook her head slowly.
"I don't want to go back," she muttered. "I'm done filming. Tomorrow's free. Worst case, I sleep in your private room."
"My little princess," Beau sighed, "this isn't about your schedule. It's about you being seen like this. Tonight's full of familiar faces. If you get photographed drunk—"
He decided, after a heartbeat, that calling Tom was still the safest choice.
Then he realized his own phone wasn't on him—probably left on his desk.
So he reached into Jayna's purse and pulled out her phone, unlocking it to search for Tom Hanley's number.
"Don't call Tom…" Jayna complained, her words thick, childish. "I want to drink more…"
Beau ignored her and scrolled.
Then he froze.
At the very top of her contacts—pinned there, immovable—was a name saved as:
My GV.
Beau's mind ran quickly, trying to match initials to anyone he knew.
Nothing.
He lifted the phone slightly, glancing at Jayna with a careful, testing curiosity.
"Jayna," he asked lightly, voice almost playful, "if not Tom… then who do you want to come get you?"
Jayna stared down at her bracelet, the tiny diamond star catching the bar's dim light.
Her voice dropped into something so soft it barely existed.
Beau leaned closer, tilting his head to catch it.
"Ginevra Volkova."
Beau repeated the name slowly, tasting the shape of it. Then his eyes flicked back to the pinned initials.
G. V
Oh.
So that was it.
In Beau's memory, Jayna had always been untouchable—cool, proud, devastatingly beautiful. She rejected people the way other women rejected free samples: without hesitation, without guilt. The industry joked she didn't have a heart.
And yet here she was, drunk and trembling, tears on her cheeks, calling someone's name like prayer.
Beau's lips curved.
He could already picture the future blackmail material.
"Well," he sang softly, deliberately cheerful, "then I'm calling her, okay?"
Before Jayna's fogged mind could protest, he pressed call.
The phone rang.
And rang.
Long enough that Beau began to think the number was old, abandoned—some relic pinned to the top of a dead list.
He was about to hang up when, finally, the endless waiting snapped—
"Hello."
A woman's voice, cool and sharp, like winter air sliding along steel.
Beau's brows lifted. He glanced over his shoulder at Jayna, who had folded over the bar, head resting on her arm like a defeated bird.
Beau stepped aside, lowering his voice.
"Hi. Um—are you Ginevra Volkova?"
There was a pause—measured, controlled.
Then: "I am."
Beau's eyes narrowed slightly. Her tone was detached, almost too calm, as if emotion had been disciplined out of her.
Jayna… liked this?
Beau cleared his throat politely.
"My name's Beau. I'm a friend of Jayna's. She's here with me—she drank too much."
"Where?"
The single word came faster than anything she'd said so far.
Not softer.
Tighter.
As if the question had teeth.
Beau's mouth tugged, a quiet little smile.
Oh. So that's what this was.
"Golden Earth," he answered. "The private club up on the Foxhill Gardens ridge. Can you—"
The line went dead.
Beau blinked at the phone.
She'd hung up.
He stared at the screen for a second, then let out a low, incredulous laugh.
Well.
No one ever dared hang up on him.
But fine—he'd let it slide. For Jayna's sake.
Beau walked back toward the bar, folding his arms as he watched Jayna slumped there, cheeks flushed, hair falling loose around her face.
This girl… for all her fire and pride…
Maybe she wasn't alone in it.
Maybe it wasn't just unrequited longing.
A black Cadillac tore through the mountain road under the night sky.
Its speed was conservative only in the sense that no one had dared estimate higher than what they were already terrified by—close to ninety miles per hour, then more, the engine rising like a snarl.
Not long after, the car cut into the bright perimeter of Golden Earth, headlights sweeping across the gates.
Every vehicle here was supposed to be tagged with membership clearance.
This one wasn't.
Security stepped forward and signaled for the driver to lower the window, credentials ready in hand.
The door opened.
A tall woman stepped out in a black wool coat.
She looked like she'd been carved from night itself—cold, clean lines, pale face, black eyes reflecting a hard, unwelcoming light. The air around her felt heavier, as if her mood dragged down the temperature.
"I'm here to pick someone up," see said, voice flat. "Tell your owner."
The guard hesitated.
Then the radio in his ear crackled with a quick order, urgent and unmistakable.
His posture shifted at once—respect replacing resistance.
The gates opened.
And the Cadillac glided in.
Earlier—just moments before—
Beau had returned a call to the head of security, smiling to himself, and set his drink down.
He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Mr. Langford," Beau greeted smoothly, stepping forward with effortless courtesy. "Always a pleasure."
Mr. Langford—early thirties, Russia real estate royalty with his own empire spreading across the mainland—wore a tailored suit and the self-satisfied ease of a man who'd never had to wait for anything.
He was handsome in that practiced, expensive way. Talented. Wealthy. Generous with money and careless with people.
And wildly popular with anyone who wanted to climb.
Beau clinked glasses with him, then asked with a faintly amused innocence, "Is Mrs. Langford enjoying herself?"
Mr. Langford smiled, eyes crinkling. "Careful," he said, voice light. "Words like that can get a man in trouble."
Beau let it go, but his gaze sharpened a fraction. So Mindy Hall hadn't fully locked him down yet. The title didn't fit as securely as she wanted it to.
Mr. Langford took a small sip, then nodded toward the bar area. "Too many people upstairs. Came down for air."
Beau's eyes followed his.
At the bar, a woman in a vivid red gown was leaning on the counter—alone, glowing, almost unreal in the dim light.
Mr. Langford's gaze caught like a hook.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
He started walking.
Beau stepped into his path.
"Oh?" Beau drawled politely. "Where are you headed, Mr. Langford?"
Mr. Langford narrowed his eyes, lifted his glass, and gestured casually toward Jayna.
"That one," he said. "Who is she?"
Beau's smile didn't change, but something inside it turned sharp.
"She's taken," he said softly.
"Taken?" Mr. Langford laughed as if he'd heard a child tell a joke. "In a place like this?"
He walked anyway.
Beau didn't signal the guards to stop him.
He watched.
Mr. Langford approached the bar like he owned the air around it.
"This lady," he said in a gentleman's tone—though his russian-tinged English bent the syllables in a way that felt oily rather than charming—"let me buy you a drink."
Jayna frowned, eyes unfocused with alcohol, irritation blooming quickly.
"No," she said curtly. "Thank you."
Mr. Langford leaned closer, studying her flushed eyes, the soft red around her lids that made her look heartbreakingly vulnerable.
She looked familiar.
He couldn't place it.
But he didn't need to.
"If you're tired," he murmured, "I can take you to my private yacht. We can spend the night somewhere quiet."
Then—before she could move—his hand slid around her shoulder, cologne-heavy, proprietary.
He barely had time to enjoy the feel of her before his wrist was seized.
A grip like iron.
His arm was wrenched up and away, his body shoved sideways.
He stumbled, catching himself on a rail just in time to avoid making a spectacle of himself.
"Don't touch her."
The voice behind him was low.
Cold.
Mr. Langford turned, jaw tightening—
And met the eyes of another woman.
A beautiful one, yes. Striking, undeniably.
But her beauty wasn't warm.
It was the kind that warned you.
She stood there in a black coat, her presence radiating something that felt like a storm held back by discipline.
Her gaze was unwavering, almost inhumanly steady—like something that didn't blink in the dark.
For a second, Mr. Langford felt an unpleasant shiver crawl up his spine.
Beau stepped up from behind with an apologetic smile that wasn't apologetic at all.
"You see?" Beau said gently to Mr. Langford, as if explaining something obvious. "I told you. She's taken."
Mr. Langford's pride flared. He wasn't used to being refused—certainly not by women.
But the rooftop party upstairs was full of business partners, full of eyes.
He couldn't afford to lose face over a woman he hadn't even touched properly.
He forced his mouth into a thin smile and stepped back.
As he left, he threw one last look at the woman in black—the ice-cold one—and something about her eyes made his skin prickle again.
Then he was gone.
Beau finally turned his full attention to her.
He studied the woman Jayna had loved for eleven years.
Up close, she was exactly what Beau had imagined and nothing like it at all: pale, restrained, almost austere—an elegance that didn't ask for attention, yet pulled it anyway. She smelled faintly of cold air and something clean, medicinal.
A person who looked like she lived behind locked doors.
Beau stepped forward and offered his hand.
"Hello. Ginevra Volkova," he said with a warm, easy smile. "I'm Beau. Jayna's friend."
Ginevra didn't take his hand.
She didn't even pretend to.
Her eyes flicked over him like frost sliding across glass, and Beau—who rarely feared anyone—felt a small, involuntary chill.
He understood immediately why the air around her had been so punishing.
She'd seen Jayna touched.
That was all it took.
"This person," Ginevra said calmly, voice so controlled it sounded carved, "I'm taking her home."
It wasn't a request.
It was a notice—barely even that.
She tugged at her collar as if it was strangling her, then shrugged off her own black coat and draped it over Jayna, covering every inch of exposed skin with a fierce, almost possessive care.
Her cold scent wrapped around Jayna like a tide—clean, sharp, undeniable.
Jayna squinted up, confused, her drunken gaze narrowing as if she was trying to recognize a dream in waking life.
Ginevra looked down at her for one brief moment.
And the hardness in her face softened—just a thread, just enough to make it hurt to witness.
Then, as if to protect Jayna even from her own unfocused eyes, Ginevra lifted her hand—cold fingers—and covered Jayna's gaze gently.
"Come on," she murmured, too softly for most people to hear.
She bent, supported Jayna with careful strength, and guided her toward the door.
Under the stunned eyes of strangers, under the low hum of a room that suddenly didn't know where to look, she brought Jayna out into the night and into the waiting car.
The door shut.
The engine roared.
And the black Cadillac vanished into the dark, as if it had never been there at all.
Beau stood at the window, watching the taillights dissolve into the mountain road.
He exhaled a quiet laugh, half amazement, half warning.
Jayna's heart's owner…
was terrifying.