2

Dorian's POV

From the moment I stepped inside an hour ago, a sick feeling had settled in my gut. Five vodkas later, it hadn't dulled—it had sharpened. What unsettled me most was the familiarity. I knew this place too well, like the weight of a gun in my palm or the sound of my own voice. It reeked of memories I'd buried deep, yet here they were, clawing their way back to the surface.

A server approached—new, judging by the bright, oblivious smile on her face. "Can I get you anything else? A refill? A menu? You look lonely."

I clenched my jaw. She had no idea who I was, what I did. Anyone who did wouldn’t have dared to pry.

"No, thank you," I said, my voice cool, controlled. She hesitated as if sensing the ice beneath the civility but wisely retreated. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t learned that I had no room for kindness, no patience for small talk. I’d spent years perfecting the art of emotional concealment, locking every weakness away behind a mask of indifference.

As head of the Special Activity Division, that detachment had served me well. It had kept me alive. But sometimes, it felt like suffocation. I glanced at my watch, catching my own reflection in the glass. My mother’s dark brows, my father’s jawline, the green eyes that had haunted him until the day he died.

A prickle ran down my spine.

Someone was watching me.

I didn’t react right away, only flicked my gaze toward the far end of the room, toward the window. Years of survival had honed my instincts to razor sharpness, and they never failed me. There—against the wall—a woman. Her posture stiff, her gaze locked on mine. The moment our eyes met, she jolted as if struck by lightning. Her lips parted slightly, full and inviting, and even from this distance, I could see the uncertainty in her expression.

Innocence.

She had no idea what kind of man she had just locked eyes with.

Before I could process it further, she ducked out of sight. A fleeting moment, gone just as quickly. I exhaled sharply, shaking my head, and traced the rim of my vodka glass with my fingertip. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. My focus was elsewhere. My brother Adrian should be arriving soon—fashionably late, as always.

I flexed my hand and noticed a smear of blood on my knuckle. Frowning, I wiped it away with a napkin, wincing at the sting. The cut was fresh—courtesy of the biker I had confronted earlier. His bloodied lips had trembled as he looked up at me, fear thick in his voice.

"Are you going to... kill me?"

"Not if you tell me what I want to know."

He cracked fast. They always did. My reputation had that effect. The information he spilled had brought me one step closer to my goal—tracking down the elusive manufacturer of untraceable weapons. Five years of patience, of calculated moves, all leading to this. Finding Sasuke Shinomiya, the man who had put a bullet in my father’s head. I would dismantle his empire piece by piece. And when he had nothing left, I’d finish what he started.

A presence loomed in front of me, pulling me back to the present.

"About time you showed up, Adri—"

It wasn’t Adrian.

It was her.

Up close, she looked different—softer. The dim lighting highlighted the warmth of her tan skin, the fullness of her lips, the brightness in her eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this. She was fidgeting, her fingers twisting together, her nerves tangible.

I studied her. A fake Louis Vuitton purse—comfort over status. No callouses on her hands—white-collar job. But the toned definition of her arms hinted at something else—yoga, maybe, or dance. My gaze drifted lower for a fraction of a second before I forced it back up.

She lifted a hand to her mouth, sucking on her fingertip where a small bead of blood bloomed. "Sorry," she murmured. "I'm nervous. I don’t do this often."

Intriguing.

I arched a brow, letting the silence stretch. She mistook it for an invitation to continue.

"This… blind date thing," she clarified, motioning between us. "It's awkward, as you can probably tell. But I’m in a reckless mood, so I’m just winging it. I’m Vivian, by the way."

A blind date.

Understanding settled over me. She thought I was the man she was supposed to meet tonight. The realization was almost amusing. Men like me didn’t do blind dates or fumble through nervous introductions. We saw. We wanted. We took.

Yet there was something about her. The way she fidgeted, the way her voice wavered just slightly, the way her hands trembled like a deer standing too close to a wolf. She had no idea what she had just walked into.

For a fleeting second, I considered correcting her mistake. But another thought took hold instead.

How far could I push her?

How far could she bend before she broke?

I stood, offering my hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Vivian," I said smoothly. "Take a seat."