Chapter 1 - The silver tray
The chandelier light inside the Obsidian Gallery hung like liquid gold over Manhattan’s most exclusive crowd. Millionaires, oil tycoons, and old-money aristocrats moved across the polished marble floor, their laughter sharp and practiced. Among them stood Alexander Voss.
He didn't blend in because he tried to; he blended in because nobody expected a titan to hide in plain sight. Broad-shouldered, rugged, and carrying a quiet, terrifying composure, Alexander wore a plain black tuxedo without a single luxury label. On his left wrist sat a worn leather wristwatch, its metal scratched from years of actual work, utterly out of place among the hundred-thousand-dollar timepieces glinting in the room.
Alexander stood near the VIP table, his stormy gray eyes fixed on an oil painting resting on an easel near the stage. The canvas depicted a stormy coastline bathed in warm light—a piece he knew better than anyone in the room.
A sharp clatter shattered his quiet focus.
"Hold this," a cold, dripping voice commanded.
Celeste Harrington stepped directly into his space. At thirty-nine, Celeste was the uncrowned queen of New York high society. Draped in an extravagant silver evening gown that mirrored her cold, polished persona, she radiated contempt. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and ears, catching the harsh gala light against her fair, rosy skin.
Without waiting for a response, Celeste shoved a heavy silver serving tray stacked with empty champagne flutes into Alexander’s hands.
Alexander’s hands caught the tray purely by reflex. His posture didn't shift. His expression remained unreadable, like stone carved by salt water.
"At least try to make yourself useful," Celeste sneered, barely looking him in the eye.
She paused, noticing a tiny smudge of foundation on her white silk glove. With an exaggerated sigh of irritation, she reached out and wiped her gloved fingers directly across the lapel of Alexander’s black tuxedo jacket, smearing the silk fabric.
She turned on her heels, leaving him standing there with her trash.
May you like
Across the room, several eyes turned toward them. Whispers rippled through the nearest cluster of socialites. Celeste Harrington had just treated a guest like kitchen staff, and to her, the world was working exactly as it should.
Alexander looked down at the smear on his lapel. Then he looked at the heavy silver tray resting in his calloused hands. He didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice. But deep within his calm gaze, something ancient and dangerous stirred.
