The evening stretches on.
Nastya feels his gaze at intervals, like shadows slipping over her shoulders. She doesn't look back again, but she knows exactly where he is at every moment. It's not fear. It's awareness—sharp and quiet, like walking on ice and hearing it crack.
Anton doesn't move toward her.
He watches. Calculates. Waits. Not like a hunter—but like a man deciding if he wants to open a door that might never close.
They exist in parallel silence—close enough to touch, yet not a word exchanged.
Until—
"Anastasia Ivanova," a too-loud voice cuts across the hum of conversation.
She turns, startled slightly, to see Professor Mikhailov, proud as a peacock, hand on the arm of a tall man she's only seen in newspapers and rumors.
"Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Reznikov."
Anton steps forward slowly, expression unreadable, eyes already fixed on hers.
Nastya feels the air shift.
So this is him.
The one who's been watching her like he already knows something she doesn't.
"Reznikov," she repeats, softly. Not a question. Not quite recognition. Just a word to taste and remember.
"Miss Ivanova," he says, voice like velvet over steel. "I've heard… very little. But I'm curious."
It's not a flirtation.
It's a challenge.
And Nastya—steady as always—doesn't look away.
"Then I hope you're curious enough to ask the right questions."
Professor Mikhailov laughs awkwardly, sensing the sudden charge, and slips away to tend to other guests—leaving them alone.
The ballroom fades.
The music softens.
He was nothing like she imagined.
No gold rings, no loud arrogance. No threats in his voice. Just stillness. The kind that draws your attention because it doesn't ask for it.
Anton Reznikov didn't smile like other men. His mouth barely moved. But his eyes—
They saw everything.
She felt it—how carefully he watched her, not in the way men usually look, but like someone who's lived too long without trusting anything, and now isn't sure if he should.
She hated how her pulse responded.
How calm suddenly felt like effort.
"I've heard very little. But I'm curious."
That voice would haunt her, she already knew. Deep, deliberate. Polished, like it belonged to someone who could both read poetry and order a man's disappearance.
You're not afraid of him, she told herself. You just don't know what he wants.
And yet—
She didn't walk away.
⸻
Anton
Up close, she was even more dangerous.
Not in the way his father warned him about. Not seduction, not calculation. No—it was something far worse.
Authenticity.
She didn't try to impress. She didn't flutter. She didn't pretend to be shy or bold or anything in between.
She just was. Quiet. Grounded. Real.
And for a man raised on shadows and lies, that kind of presence felt like a foreign language—one he wanted to learn.
"Then I hope you're curious enough to ask the right questions."
She'd said it like a dare.
Not flirtatious. Not hostile.
Just… unafraid.
Anton felt something shift in his chest. Not desire. Not yet. But a question. One that wouldn't let go.
He watched her turn away slowly, moving back toward the gallery wall.
And for the first time in a long time, he followed—not with his feet, but with his thoughts.
Who are you really, Nastya Ivanova?
And what are you doing in my world?