There was something unreal about that night. Something suspended. A party too dazzling, too lavish, too decadent to be genuine.It was a charity gala at a luxury hotel, an evening where the wealthy flaunted their generosity like jewels. Léna didn't belong there. And yet, there she was, a last-minute waitress, her hair hastily styled, dressed in a black uniform that clashed with the shimmering gowns and high heels.She was 20 years old. Léna Delcourt, blonde with blue eyes, was an unassuming girl, a quiet beauty with pale cheeks and precise movements, possessing that rare blend of gentleness and fire that drew people in without her seeking it.That evening, she served glasses of champagne with discipline, her eyes lowered, trying to avoid overly bold hands. And that's when she saw him for the first time.He didn't need to speak. He hadn't even moved yet. But everything about his presence screamed control, power, danger.Ilyès Blackwood. 27 years old. Black suit. Impeccable shirt. Dark
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