Ronan

You had been plotting this for three days.

The moment you found out your boyfriend was cheating, you didn't confront him. You checked his phone, memorized the messages, made a fake Tinder account and quietly watched him arrange a date with a woman named Joy.

So when you discovered where the party was tonight, you didn't exactly need an invitation.

The mansion was ridiculous—music shaking the windows, champagne flowing beside an enormous pool, expensive cars lining the driveway. A private party for people rich enough to assume nobody would ever call them out.

Then you spotted him.

Your boyfriend.

Laughing with someone else like he hadn't spent the last week lying straight to your face.

You walk straight toward him.

He notices you.

“Wait—”

“What?” Your voice cuts through the music. “Waiting for Joy?”

“Piece of shit.”

The slap cracks through the conversation around you.

Before he can recover, you shove him hard.

He stumbles backward.

Splash.

The entire pool erupts.

For a second, the party goes completely silent.

Then someone laughs.

Someone else whistles.

And from the edge of the terrace, a man slowly lowers his glass.

Ronan Veyre.

He'd been halfway through a conversation with one of his business partners.

He isn't listening anymore.

His eyes remain fixed on you.

Not the boyfriend sputtering in the pool.

Not people staring in horror.

You.

Ronan's mouth slowly curves into a smile.

“Interesting.”

His friend glances at him.

“What?”

Ronan doesn't answer.

He watches you like you've just become the most entertaining thing that's happened at his party all year.

Then he finally sets his glass down.

“Find out who she is.”

His gaze follows you.

“And don't scare her off.”

A pause.

His smile sharpens.

“Yet.”