Twenty-six years ago.
Dominic Sterling met Helena Graves at a charity gala in Manhattan. She was twenty-three. He was thirty-five. She wore a black dress that made her look like she'd stepped out of a gothic novel, the fabric clinging to her frame like shadows made solid. He wore a suit worth more than most people's cars, custom-tailored and perfectly pressed.
She was a graduate student studying folklore and mythology. He was a billionaire's son learning to run an empire.
They shouldn't have spoken. Different worlds. Different lives.
But he saw her across the room and couldn't look away. The ballroom was filled with Manhattan's elite, chandeliers glittering overhead, champagne flowing freely, but none of it registered once he spotted her standing alone near a painting she was actually studying rather than pretending to admire.
"Who is that?" Dominic asked his assistant.
"Helena Graves. Columbia University. Scholarship student. Not your usual crowd."
"Introduce me."
