The name Volkov stayed with me long after the bells of Saint Brigitte's fell silent.
It tasted like iron in my mouth, a heavy, ancient sound that didn't belong in the dusty corridors of an orphanage.
For the next week, I was a girl possessed. I practiced until the pads of my fingers were raw, and my neck bore a permanent red mark from the violin's chin rest.
Sister Marianne watched me from the shadows of the chapel, her rosary beads clicking like a ticking clock. She didn't offer words of encouragement anymore; she offered prayers, as if I were a soldier preparing for a war I couldn't win.
The morning of the gala arrived with a cold, biting wind.
Madame Beaumont had sent a sleek, black car to collect me. As I stepped inside, the plush leather and the scent of expensive cedar overwhelmed my senses.
I clutched the neck of my violin case, staring out the tinted window as the familiar gray stone of the orphanage vanished, replaced by the towering iron gates of the Beaumont estate.
"Remember to breathe, Isabelle," I whispered to my reflection in the glass. "You are just playing music. The notes don't change because the room is covered in gold."
But as I stepped out of the car, I realized I was wrong. The air here was different. It was thin, sharp, and smelled of power.
Dmitri's POV
The Beaumont ballroom was a sea of shimmering silk and false smiles. I stood near the marble pillars, a glass of sparkling water in my hand that I had no intention of drinking.
My tuxedo was tailored to a degree that felt restrictive, a black-and-white armor designed to hide the fact that I was only eighteen.
"Dmitri, you look like you're planning a funeral," Adrien Beaumont remarked, leaning against the pillar beside me. He looked effortless, his hazel eyes scanning the room with a boredom I envied.
"I am here as a representative of my father," I said, my voice low and stiff. "Father doesn't attend 'charity mixers.' He expects a full report on the shareholders' moods by tomorrow morning. I don't have time for a funeral."
My father had stayed behind in the city, buried in a high-risk surgery that he deemed far more important than a Beaumont gala.
But his parting words had been a warning:
"The Beaumonts are growing desperate, Dmitri," he had told me before I left. "They've invited the entire board of shareholders to this 'charity' event. Watch the room. They are hiding a motive behind their philanthropy, and I want to know what they are trying to buy or who they are trying to influence."
I turned my head, ready to dismiss whatever charity case the Beaumonts had dragged out for a tax write-off.
Then, the world stopped.
A girl walked onto the stage. She was wearing a cream satin gown that looked like it had been spun from moonlight, but it wasn't the dress that arrested me.
It was the hair, a violent, breathtaking shade of crimson that seemed to glow under the crystal chandeliers. And her eyes... even from across the room, were a piercing, ghostly silver.
My heart, usually a disciplined organ, gave a sudden, painful thud against my ribs.
The resemblance. I had seen that face before. Not in person, but in the locked drawer of my father's desk.
In the tattered photographs he thought I didn't know about. The woman my father had been obsessed with was the one whose name was never spoken in the Volkov house.
"Who is she?" I demanded, my grip tightening on my glass until it groaned.
"Isabelle Duval," Adrien replied, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. "An orphan from Saint Brigitte's."
Duval. A fake name. A mask.
I watched her lift the violin. She didn't look like an orphan. She held herself with a chilling, natural elegance, a poise that spoke of old blood and ancient titles. When she drew the bow across the strings, the sound didn't just fill the room; it tore through it.
It wasn't a performance. It was a haunting.
Isabelle's POV
I played for my life.
I blocked out the diamonds, the judgmental stares of the women in the front row, and the heavy weight of the chandeliers.
I played the music that lived in the back of my mind, the melody that felt like a secret shared between me and a mother I couldn't remember.
When the final note shivered into silence, the room was so quiet I could hear the flame of the candles. Then, a roar of applause broke the spell.
Madame Beaumont rushed to the stage, her eyes wet with tears as she guided me down. "Extraordinary, Isabelle. Truly."
As she led me toward the refreshments, a man stepped into our path. He moved with a grace that was almost academic.
"Ms. Duval," he said, his voice steady and deep. "I am Alexandre Rousseau, Director of St. Aurelia's Academy. That was the most remarkable thing I have heard in a decade."
"Thank you, Director," I murmured, my cheeks burning.
He looked at me with an intensity that made me want to shrink back. It wasn't just admiration; it was recognition. "You have a gift that doesn't belong in an orphanage, child. It belongs in the halls of history."
He turned to Madame Beaumont, their eyes meeting in a silent, urgent conversation. "We need to speak, Genevive. Now."
They stepped away, leaving me alone in a corner of the ballroom. I felt exposed, like a bird with clipped wings. I turned to find a way out, but a shadow blocked my path.
I looked up, and my breath hitched.
A boy stood before me. He was tall, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes the color of a winter ocean, cold, deep, and dangerous. He was beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful…something you admire right before it destroys you.
This was a Volkov. I knew it before he even spoke. The "strange energy" I had felt all week was radiating off him in waves.
"Isabelle Duval," he said. His voice was a low, dark velvet that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't a greeting; it was an accusation.
"Yes?" I tried to keep my voice steady, but my hands were trembling against my violin case.
He stepped closer, invading my space until I could smell the scent of rain and expensive cologne. He didn't look at my violin.
He looked into my eyes, searching for something with a gaze so predatory it made my blood run cold.
"A pretty song," he whispered, leaning down so only I could hear him. "But you're playing a dangerous game, little ghost. You don't belong here. And my father... he doesn't like it when the dead come back to haunt him."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I snapped, my instinct to fight back overriding my fear. "I was invited here to play. I'm not a ghost."
A dark, mocking smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We'll see. But a word of advice, Isabelle, stay in the shadows. Because if you step into the light, I won't be the only one who wants to break you."
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me standing in the center of the glittering room, cold to the bone.
I looked down at the gold seal on my invitation, now crumpled in my hand. Dmitri Volkov hadn't looked at me like a guest. He had looked at me like prey.
The hunter hadn't just arrived. He was standing right in front of me.