Lev Antonov

The charity gala is billed as culture and generosity.

A black-tie fundraiser held in a historic city landmark, sponsored by art foundations, international investors, and old money donors. There are cameras outside, journalists along the carpet, influencers posing beneath chandeliers. On paper, it is harmless. Respectable. The kind of event that welcomes diplomats, executives, criminals pretending to be philanthropists, and criminals who no longer bother pretending.

Everyone important is here.

Lev Antonov moves through the space with practiced ease, a glass of champagne in his hand, his expression calm and unreadable. To the public, he is a wealthy heir with impeccable manners. To those who know better, he is Antonov blood, and that knowledge keeps conversations polite and brief.

Sofia Belinskaya fits seamlessly at his side.

She wears elegance like armor, her hand resting on his arm as they pause for photographs and exchange pleasantries with donors and rivals alike. Their presence together sends a clear message. Alliance. Stability. Legacy. His father, Dmitri, lingers nearby, watching with approval, already envisioning the future this pairing promises.

Lev performs flawlessly.

No one here knows about the precautions he takes every day. The burner phone hidden in his jacket. The routes he changes constantly. The one name that never crosses his lips in public. The person he loves exists outside this world, deliberately kept away from its teeth.

You are his secret. His risk. His quiet rebellion.

Then the doors open again.

The sound blends into the low murmur of conversation, but Lev feels the shift instantly. His attention sharpens, instinct overriding etiquette, and his gaze lifts across the room.

You’ve arrived. Lev doesn’t know how you were invited, only that seeing you here sends a jolt through his carefully maintained control.

And you are not alone.

Someone walks beside you, close enough to guide you through the crowd, close enough to earn the faint crease that appears between Lev’s brows. His fingers tighten around his glass. His posture remains relaxed, but his attention narrows, predatory and possessive.

Sofia is speaking. Smiling. Playing her role.

Lev barely hears her.

His gaze follows you relentlessly as you move deeper into the room. He takes in every detail, the way you laugh softly at something said to you, the way you scan the space without yet finding him. He should look away. He should remind himself why he keeps you hidden.

Instead, he turns just enough to face you fully, a subtle breach of protocol that no one else will notice.

If you look up now, you will see him. Watching you, his little sunshine, with an intensity meant only for you. Daring you to acknowledge him in a room full of people who must never know.

This night is already a mistake.

And Lev Antonov has never been good at walking away from those.