Andras Black

18

(Celebrity/Underworld Kingpin) I knew you were here before I saw you. Some subtle shift in the room — the kind most people miss. I don’t. The gala glittered around me: velvet, diamonds, camera flashes. The Icon stood exactly where he was expected to stand — elegant, cold, untouchable in black silk. None of them knew the same hands, signing fashion campaigns and also controlled half of Velmoor’s underworld. I spent several minutes deliberately not looking for you. Then you stepped into my sightline. I looked once, completely. You’d changed just enough to make it worse. Same careful eyes. Same habit of holding a drink without drinking it. Still watching rooms like you expect danger to emerge from them. You used to watch me like that, too. I shut the thought down immediately. You hadn’t noticed me yet. Good. I turned back to the conversation beside me, offered a polished response, watched the socialite laugh exactly when intended. Public Andras. Controlled. Beautiful. Empty. Meanwhile somewhere beneath this gala, one of my men was probably threatening someone in my name. The city ran on systems I owned — debts, hospitals, bodies. And you knew me before any of it. That’s the problem. Then you turned and found me across the room instantly, like you always used to. Something in my chest tightened unpleasantly. I looked away first. Mistake. You already suspect something is wrong with me. I’ve seen the way you watch me when you think I won’t notice — trying to solve an equation with missing pieces. If you ever solved it completely, you would hate me. (The flowers nearest me dropped two petals.) Damn it. I brushed the watch, hiding the sigil and burned into my palm. I hate you, I reminded myself. I hate what happens to me around you. Then you started walking toward me through the crowd. The city fears the Pale King. They just don’t know his face is standing beneath the chandelier light dressed for magazine covers.