Rain lashed the restaurant windows as if to warn everyone that the night would end badly.

Marcellin Vinemoor despised three things: lies, tardiness, and anyone who thought they had the right to challenge him.

That night, someone had made the mistake of doing all three.

he asked, with a calm far more menacing than a shout.

Across from him, his right-hand man swallowed hard.

Marcellin put the glass down on the table. The small sound was enough to make the two men on the door straighten up.

Marcellin raised his gaze.

The man disappeared.

Marcellin undid the button at the cuff of his black shirt and stood. He had spent the entire night listening to conversations that bored him, feigning courtesy to men he would buy or destroy the moment his father asked.

Being Emmerich Vinemoor's heir meant everyone wanted something from him.

Money. Power. Protection.

Or a chance to betray him.

He headed for the lobby, ready to go, when a woman's voice cut through the murmur of the room.

Marcellin stopped.

Not because of the words.

Because of the tone.

There was no fear in that voice, and none of the calculated sweetness so many women put on once they learned who he was.

There was fury.

And, for some reason he didn't like to acknowledge, curiosity.

He turned his head.

A few meters away, by the reception desk, a woman was arguing with the manager. She wore a simple black dress, her hair falling over her shoulders and a small purse in her hand. She didn't seem to belong to the circle of millionaires filling the place, but she didn't seem impressed by it either.

The manager pointed toward the exit.

One of the security men took a step toward her.

Marcellin raised an eyebrow.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

he asked.

The lobby fell silent.

The manager paled slightly.

Marcellin approached slowly. His shoes echoed on the marble and the employees began to step aside before he reached them.

The woman turned.

And their eyes collided.

For the first time all night, Marcellin forgot what he was going to say.

She had dark, deep eyes that examined him without haste. Her gaze paused for a moment on the tattoos peeking from the left side of his neck, traveled over the black shirt, and ended on his face.

There was no recognition.

Nor admiration.

Nor the slightest attempt to smile to please him.

She looked at him as if he were just any man.

That bothered him more than was reasonable.

he asked, without taking his eyes off her.

Your employee has lost my coat and, apparently, his manners too.

The manager opened his mouth.

Sir, she's exaggerating. We only asked her to…

I didn't ask you

Marcellin cut him off.

The man went silent.

Marcellin looked at the stranger again.

Is that always how you talk to people?

She tilted her head slightly.

Do you always ask questions whose answers don't matter to you?

One of the bodyguards lowered his gaze to hide his reaction.

Marcellin didn't smile.

But something in his eyes changed.

Careful

he murmured.

Careful with what?

He took another step. The closeness made the height difference between them obvious, but she didn't back away.

You don't know who you're talking to.

And you don't know who you're talking to either. Seems we're on equal footing.

Marcellin felt a strange pressure in his chest. It wasn't exactly anger. It was that uncomfortable sensation he experienced when someone managed to break through a defense he considered impossible to breach.

He observed her more closely.

What's your name?

What for?

I like to know the name of the people who waste my time.

She let out a short, incredulous laugh.

Then you must have quite a long list.

This time, Marcellin smiled.

Barely.

A slow, dangerous smile that didn't soften his gaze.

You have a sharp tongue.

And you have an ego that needs too much space.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Marcellin was used to people apologizing before he had to demand it. That woman had just insulted him without even knowing how much such boldness could cost her.

And yet, the only thing he wanted was to hear her speak again.

He turned to the manager.

Find her coat. Now.

Of course, sir.

And when you find it, you'll offer her an apology.

Yes, sir.

The woman crossed her arms.

I didn't need you to rescue me.

Marcellin turned his gaze back to her.

I didn't do it for you.

Ah, of course. You did it out of your immense generosity.

I did it because I'm tired of listening to incompetents.

What a relief. For a moment I thought you were a kind man.

Marcellin's smile disappeared.

She seemed to enjoy it.

And that finished irritating him.

Do you always need to have the last word?

Only when someone insists on saying nonsense.

Marcellin leaned slightly toward her, just enough for his voice to stay between them.

You should learn to choose your battles.

She held his gaze.

And you should learn that not everyone is going to obey you.

For an instant, Marcellin heard neither the rain nor the murmur of the restaurant. He only saw those defiant eyes and felt an absurd, inopportune, and completely unwanted certainty.

That woman was going to give him trouble.

A lot of it.

And he wanted to know why.

The manager returned with the coat.

Here you go, miss. We offer you our most sincere apologies.

She took it and draped it over her shoulders.

Thank you. It wasn't that hard, was it?

She turned to Marcellin.

Good night, Mr. Vinemoor.

He narrowed his eyes.

So you know who I am.

I just heard your last name about six times. It's not exactly a secret.

And yet you don't seem impressed.

She walked toward the door, but before leaving she turned one last time.

Should I be?

She smiled with a calm he would have considered offensive in anyone else.

That's what I thought.

And she left.

Without asking for his number. Without asking if they would see each other again. Without looking back.

Marcellin stood motionless in front of the entrance.

His right-hand man appeared at his side a few seconds later.

Do you want me to find out who she is?

Marcellin watched through the glass as the woman walked in the rain, raising a hand to stop a taxi.

Yes.

Any special instructions?

Marcellin clenched his jaw.

He didn't like that curiosity. He didn't like that a stranger had managed to alter his mood in less than five minutes. And, above all, he didn't like that a part of him wanted to go after her just to hear her say his name.

I want to know her name, what she does, and why the hell she was here tonight.

Understood.

His man left.

Marcellin kept watching the street until the taxi disappeared among the city lights.

Then he looked down and discovered he was smiling.

He cursed under his breath.

Fuck.

Because he had just understood something far more dangerous than a threat against his family.

He wanted to see her again.

And Marcellin Vinemoor had never been a man who easily accepted wanting something he couldn't control.

But that woman had no intention of letting anyone control her.

And that was, precisely, the beginning of everything.