Chapter Text
Landon
The penthouse glittered like a jewel box, all glass and gold and the kind of curated excess that reeked of money. A chandelier the size of a small house dripped overhead, scattering light across lacquered tables, sequined gowns, and teeth too white to be natural. Music pulsed from hidden speakers—some calculated mixture of bass-heavy modernity and jazz samples—loud enough to feel decadent, soft enough not to offend.
It was everything a post-gallery party should be: lavish, loud, and utterly predictable.
I’m so bored. Terribly bored.
I let the thought curl through my head while a critic gestured so close I could smell his cologne. Bergamot and sweat. He rhapsodised about negative space like he’d invented the concept himself. I nodded at the right places, even leaned in a little, just enough to make him feel like the smartest man in the room. People lived for that illusion. They’d pay anything for it.
Inside, I was calculating how quickly I could walk away without appearing rude.
Three… two… one.
Smile. Tilt of the head. A hand on his arm, light as smoke.
“Fascinating,” I murmured.
Translation: Please shut up.
I drifted off before he could follow, leaving him glowing in the aftermath of my attention. Poor man would dine on that look for weeks.
Glass in hand—water masquerading as champagne—I slipped deeper into the crowd. No one noticed. Or maybe they noticed and pretended not to. That was the game: give them the performance, let them believe they’d caught a glimpse of something real.
Another hedge-fund heir cornered me, explaining how art was “an asset class with unique liquidity challenges.”
God save me. If I hear the phrase ‘asset class’ one more time, I might stab myself with this cocktail pick.
I smiled, perfect and hollow.
I’m so bored. Terribly bored.
And then—like a spark across dry kindling—
“Did you hear? Jeremy Volkov was at the gallery tonight.”
The name slid through the air sharp as glass. My pulse jumped—one, clean jolt—but my smile never moved.
Jeremy Volkov.
I hadn’t seen him. Jeremy didn’t linger where the crowds could gawk. He was efficient, brutal, always in control. He was his father’s son. Jeremy didn’t orbit anyone’s sun.
But he’d been there. In my gallery.
I should’ve been unsettled. Wary, at the very least. Instead, I felt… flattered. The kind of flattery that doesn’t soothe but ignites, something sharp and electric under the skin.
My mouth curved, involuntary.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
A laugh cut through the din, too shrill, too eager, and Landon tilted his glass in the direction of its owner. She was pretty in the forgettable way most socialites were — flawless makeup, glossy hair, an expensive dress clinging where it should. She looked at him like she’d been waiting all night for him to notice.
He hadn’t. Until now.
The crowd was a theatre, and he was the reluctant leading man. Every gaze tracked him; every whispered syllable of Landon King curved around the chandeliers like smoke. He played the role because he always did — dangerous charm, easy smirks, words sharpened enough to draw blood without effort. But even the best performances grew stale with repetition.
He gave them the smile — the one that made people believe they were chosen. Dangerous. Crooked. Final.
Then he left.
By the time the music swallowed him again, his mind was already elsewhere. Past the chandeliers and champagne flutes. Past the meaningless stares. Out on the street, where engines waited, where the night still held the possibility of something that might actually make his pulse race.
The problem with parties was that they always ended the same way—too much perfume, too little substance, and not nearly enough to keep him entertained.
Landon slid behind the wheel of his matte-black McLaren, the door hissing shut like the exhale of some great predator. The engine purred to life beneath his hands, low and throaty, vibrating up through the leather seat into his spine. Now this—this was the only kind of thrill he could rely on. Not the shrill laughter of half-drunk heirs and heiresses. Not the way women touched his arm like he was a prize to be claimed. No, the car was better company than any of them. At least it did what he wanted when he wanted it.
He eased the wheel, pulling out onto the slick, deserted street. London at this hour was a different beast—its chaos stripped back, leaving only the hum of sodium streetlights and the occasional hiss of tyres on wet asphalt. The air smelled faintly of rain, sharp and metallic, like the city was holding its breath.
And he still was bored.
.
The city blurred past in streaks of gold and shadow, and Landon pushed the accelerator harder, feeling the surge of power fling him back in his seat. Speed. At least that was reliable. He could always count on velocity to make him feel something. His pulse quickened as the McLaren devoured the empty stretch of road, the sound of the engine roaring in his ears like a challenge.
The party lingered on the edge of his thoughts—women with lacquered smiles, men pretending they mattered, all of them circling him like moths to flame. He hadn’t drunk a drop, not that anyone noticed. They were too busy drowning themselves to see that his glass had been filled with water all night. That was the beauty of appearances. People only saw what they wanted.
He smirked, remembering the last girl whose lips had pressed to his ear, her laugh syrupy with gin. He’d let her pull him away, let her nails scrape down his back in some dim corridor. It passed the time, that was all. She’d wanted to matter to him; she hadn’t. Nobody stayed. Nobody was supposed to.
The road stretched open ahead, wide and inviting, and Landon felt that restlessness claw at his ribs. The kind that always told him something was about to happen. He thrived on that—on anticipation, on the precipice of the unknown.
He caught it first in his mirrors: twin beams of light flaring up behind him, growing larger, closing in fast. Another car. Sleek, silver, the shape unmistakable even in the dark—an AMG GT.
Landon’s brows arched, surprise tugging at his mouth. “Well, well.” He pressed the accelerator, testing, teasing, watching the gap shrink anyway. Whoever it was, they had teeth.
The AMG surged up alongside him, tyres screaming briefly as it matched his speed. The two machines tore through the empty city like predators circling each other, the streets deserted but for their engines, the streetlights flickering like an audience too stunned to applaud.
Landon’s blood sang. Finally. Something worth his time.
He glanced sideways through the tinted glass, but the other driver’s face was nothing but shadow. He grinned anyway. “Let’s play, then.”
He dropped a gear, the McLaren leaping forward, and for a moment he thought he had it—he thought he’d smoke them without effort. But the AMG clung to him, relentless, a silver ghost refusing to be shaken. The two cars flew down the bend, engines howling in tandem, until—
The AMG jerked, sudden and sharp, cutting across his path. Landon’s heart jumped as he swerved, tyres shrieking against asphalt, the McLaren fishtailing before he yanked it under control.
For a fraction of a second, his life had dangled on the edge of disaster. And he laughed. A low, reckless sound that filled the car.
“Mad bastard.” His knuckles tightened on the wheel, adrenaline coursing hot through his veins.
The AMG slowed, sliding deliberately into his lane, boxing him in until both cars rolled to a stop beneath the sickly yellow glow of a lone streetlight.
The silence pressed down heavy, broken only by the tick of cooling engines. No other cars. No pedestrians. Just them and the electric buzz of the lamp overhead, like the world had emptied itself for their meeting.
Landon sat back, pulse still hammering, watching as the AMG’s door swung open.
And then—Jeremy Volkov stepped out.
Of course.
Tall, broad, moving with that unhurried certainty that made lesser men nervous. His shadow stretched long across the wet pavement, his eyes catching the light as he approached.
Landon’s lips curved, half-amused, half-irritated. “Well, look who crawled out of the dark.”
Jeremy came closer. The night swallowed the sound of everything but his footsteps. And his breathing.
The air between them thrummed.
Jeremy didn’t rush. Each step was measured, deliberate, like the road belonged to him, like the night had been carved out specifically for this moment.
He stopped just shy of Landon’s door, close enough that Landon could make out the faint lines of strain around his mouth, the shadows cutting sharp across his jaw. Up close, Jeremy was worse—taller, broader, built like the kind of man who’d been raised to break bones and take names. His arms looked like weapons even when they hung loose at his sides.
Landon tilted his head back against the seat, smirking up at him through the window. “I should’ve known it was you. Nobody else drives like a lunatic with a death wish.” He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “I nearly wrapped my car around a lamppost. Very rude of you.”
Jeremy leaned down, resting a hand on the roof of the McLaren. The gesture was casual, but the proximity wasn’t. The world shrank to just his presence, his shadow spilling into the car, the faint scent of smoke and something darker curling in with him.
“Still alive, aren’t you?” His voice was low, steady. Almost bored, but edged with intent.
“Barely. My poor heart nearly gave out.” Landon tapped his chest with mock solemnity, then grinned. “You’ll owe me a replacement if it does.”
Jeremy didn’t smile. He never did when Landon wanted him to.
The silence stretched, heavy, until Jeremy spoke again. “You’ve been keeping busy.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Landon drawled, finally leaning forward, resting his forearms on the wheel. “Another would be… tragically under-stimulated. The party was an atrocity. Not even the bar could save it.” His gaze flicked up, sharp. “But you didn’t come to discuss my social calendar, did you?”
Jeremy’s mouth twitched—amusement, maybe, or irritation. Hard to tell. “You’re sharp as ever.”
“Flatter me more. I live for it.”
“You know why I was at the gallery,” he said, voice low. No preamble.
I tipped my head, let a lazy smile curl. “Obviously. My champagne was excellent, the art was blindingly overpriced, and you wanted a night out. What a mystery.”
He didn’t bite. He stepped nearer, and the silence pressed in—only the hum of the streetlamp, only his breathing.
“I have capital that can’t live in daylight,” he said finally. “Money that’s valuable to me—so long as it looks legitimate. I need someone whose world is already gilded, whose reputation sells respectability without trying.”
“Flattery,” I murmured. “Keep talking, I might forget you nearly ran me off the road.”
He ignored that too, which only made me grin wider.
“You can take funds that shouldn’t be seen,” Jeremy continued, steady as stone, “and make them look like the natural consequence of art, patrons, exhibitions. That’s what I want: the illusion of ordinary commerce.”
I raised a brow. “So you don’t want me to be your stunt double. You want me to be your alibi.”
His eyes didn’t flicker. “I want you to be the reason no one asks questions.”
“Ah.” I tapped a finger against my lip. “You’re asking me to smile pretty while I become the world’s most expensive rug—something to sweep the dirt under.”
“You’re asking me to believe you’re too clever not to understand the advantages,” he shot back.
That pulled a laugh from me—sharp, delighted. “Touché.”
Jeremy let the silence breathe again, then: “You get control where it matters. You get reach, influence. Doors that don’t open for anyone else. And you get to keep your hands clean where people can see them.”
“Mm,” I said, leaning against the car, “so publicly spotless, privately dangerous. How very on brand.”
For the first time, a ghost of amusement touched his mouth. “You decide the cost.”
The street was still empty, but it felt crowded—with danger, with promise, with the kind of stakes that set your blood fizzing. I gave him a slow, mocking clap. “Direct, tidy, utterly unromantic. I do admire your style.”
I let the silence stretch, studying him like he was a painting I hadn’t yet decided whether to buy or burn. The streetlamp buzzed overhead, shadows cutting his face into hard lines.
Finally, I sighed, slow and dramatic. “Well. You make a compelling pitch. But I don’t usually shake hands in alleys, Jeremy. Not without dinner first.”
His jaw ticked. “This isn’t a date.”
“Isn’t it?” I shot back, smirking. “Dark street, low lighting, whispered secrets—romantic, if you squint.”
For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face. Annoyance, amusement, temptation—hard to tell. But it was there, and it was mine.
He stepped back, giving me space as if that flicker annoyed him more than anything I’d said. “Think about it. You’ll know where to find me when you decide.”
“Oh, I always know where to find you,” I said, pushing off the car, letting my grin sharpen. “The question is whether I’ll bother showing up.”
Jeremy’s eyes lingered a fraction too long before he turned away, his footsteps echoing on the empty road. The streetlamp hummed, the night closed in again, and I realised my pulse was still quick.
Infuriating.
I hated when people managed that.
Jeremy’s footsteps faded, swallowed by the hush of the empty street.
I leaned back against the car, lips curling into a slow, unbothered grin.
“Walks in, makes demands, vanishes. Typical.”
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I let the engine roar back to life. The sound cracked through the silence, a declaration all on its own.
If Jeremy thought he could corner me into playing his game, he was in for one hell of a surprise.
Because I never played anyone’s game but my own