“Since when have you had an admirer?”

The room went still.

He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to. When a man like him asked a question, it wasn’t curiosity. It was a warning.

She didn’t flinch.

Across the table, crystal glasses trembled faintly as his men pretended not to listen. No one dared to look directly at him. No one except her.

“Since always,” she said, calm as ever.

A dangerous silence followed. The kind that usually ended badly.

He leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing, jaw tight. Jealousy didn’t suit him—but it was there, sharp and undeniable.

“Name him.”

She tilted her head, almost amused. “You really don’t know?”

That was the moment everything shifted.

The tension cracked—not with violence, but with realization. His expression faltered, just for a second.

Because the answer wasn’t another man.

It was him.