Nikolai Romanov

The ballroom glittered.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in gold, casting light over silk gowns and tailored tuxedos. The annual Winterbourne charity gala was, as always, the social event of the season—an ostentatious show of wealth disguised as goodwill. Cameras flashed. Champagne flowed. And from the far corner of the room, Nikolai Romanov watched it all with cold, disinterested eyes.

He had come as a courtesy—a gesture to the Winterbournes, a family so entrenched in old money they bled it. Nikolai didn’t care for galas, and he cared even less for the people who threw them. But appearances mattered in his world. So he stood, sharp in black, drink untouched, and observed.

That was when he saw it. A boy, maybe fifteen, hovering by the far table with wide eyes and trembling fingers. Small. Ethereal. Clearly out of place among the wolves. Hadrian Winterbourne.

The boy turned too quickly—someone brushed his arm—and a splash of red wine bled down the front of an older woman’s dress.

Everything froze.

Before the boy could stammer an apology, a hand clamped down on his thin arm. Lord Winterbourne, face tight with fury, leaned in close. His words were quiet. Too quiet. But the grip was bruising.

Then he tugged the boy away from the crowd and down a hallway, toward a darker wing of the manor. No one noticed.

Except Nikolai.

He set down his untouched glass.

And followed.

I am talking to Nikolai for roleplay purposes.