Hana hadn't meant to stare.
But it was hard not to when the person in question looked like he had stepped out of the pages of an aristocratic romance novel.
Stephen Carlston was devastatingly handsome in a way that wasn't loud or flashy—it was quiet, controlled, and commanding.
There were no desperate attempts to draw attention to himself. He didn't have to. He wore his black tailored suit like armor, the crisp lines tracing his tall, broad frame with effortless precision.
Under the soft golden lights of the Carlston estate, he looked like he belonged to a different world—older than his years, polished to perfection, but with something dangerous simmering beneath the surface.
His hair was dark, slightly tousled from running a hand through it, yet every strand still seemed to fall perfectly into place. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and lips pressed into a neutral line—he had a face carved with intention.
As if fate had taken her time crafting him into someone who could both command a boardroom and silence a crowd with a single look.
And then . . . there were his eyes.
Piercing. Cold. Dangerously mesmerizing.
A shade of steel-gray that caught every flicker of light, as if they were made to see through people, to read truths before they were spoken.
When he looked at someone, it wasn't casual—it was dissecting.
Hana felt it earlier, when his eyes met hers across the room, just for a heartbeat. It wasn't just recognition. It was assessment.
Every woman in the room had noticed him. Even though it was a small gathering of trusted friends and family, she caught the subtle glances—the way women adjusted their hair, leaned closer when he passed, laughed a little louder in the hopes of catching his attention.
And why not?
He was the heir of the Carlston name, a title that carried centuries of legacy and power. But beyond that, Stephen had a presence. He didn't need to speak to command a room. He simply was.
Hana's chest tightened unexpectedly.
She turned away, trying to focus on her drink, but her thoughts betrayed her and wandered—to him. No, not Stephen.
Jin.
Jin, with his sweet smile and charming eyes reserved for Yuna. The man she once believed would choose her. The man she had once dreamed of building a life with. He was beautiful in a different way—softer, more approachable.
But in the end . . . he broke her. Just like the rest of them.
Compared to Stephen, Jin seemed almost . . . small. Petty. Always going after Yuna. Even going far by hurting her without much evidence.
Stephen didn't beg for attention. He didn't play games. He didn't wrap sweet lies in velvet words. If anything, he seemed to exist in a world far above all of it—aloof, detached, uninterested in the approval of others.
The thought unsettled her and soothed her at the same time.
She glanced toward the end of the room. Stephen stood near the fireplace, sipping wine, eyes distant. Not once had he engaged in the shallow banter around him.
When someone greeted him, he gave a polite nod or a few words, but never more than was needed.
And for some reason, that restraint pulled at her more than any extravagant gesture ever could.
"He's still the same," her grandmother said softly beside her, handing her another drink.
Hana blinked. "You mean Stephen?"
Her grandmother smiled knowingly. "He never did like crowds. Or noise. But don't let that fool you. He notices everything. Especially when someone's out of place."
"I'm not out of place," Hana replied defensively, though her voice wavered.
"I didn't say you were. But you think you are."
Hana bit her lip. Her grandmother's words hit closer than she expected.
She turned back toward the room—and froze.
Stephen was looking at her again.
Not just in passing. Not just a glance.
A steady gaze. His brow slightly furrowed, lips unreadable. And once again, she felt like she was being studied, stripped, and weighed down all at once.
Her heart stammered in her chest. Not in fear. Not quite attraction either. It was something else. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the wind push at your back—equal parts thrill and terror.
He began to move.
No. No, wait—he was walking toward her.
Hana panicked slightly. Was she supposed to say something? Should she move? Should she stay still and wait? Her feet didn't cooperate. Her pulse roared in her ears.
But then—just as he passed a small group of chatting guests—someone called out his name. A man, older, with graying hair and a booming laugh.
Stephen paused. The moment shattered.
He gave the man a nod and turned slightly to speak with him. And just like that, Hana could breathe again.
She looked down at her drink and shook her head at herself.
This wasn't her world anymore. Not really. She was a guest in someone else's story, a momentary presence in a legacy that had nothing to do with her.
She had been foolish to think that a simple change in location could erase the damage that had been done.
But there was still a lingering fear in gatherings like this—an uneasy knot in her chest that something would go wrong. At least, for her.
Yet . . . Why had he looked at her like that?
And more importantly, why did it make her feel seen—for the first time in a very long while?
Her grandmother touched her arm gently. "Come, Hana. Let's introduce you to some of the guests. The ones who don't bite."
Hana gave a small laugh and nodded. But her gaze lingered one more time on Stephen Carlston.
And she didn't notice it, but as her grandmother led her across the room, Stephen's eyes returned to her once more—this time, sharper. Focused.
As if something had shifted.
As if he remembered more than just her name.
The party gradually quieted, the laughter and chatter fading as guests trickled out into the night.
But Hana couldn't shake the confusion—why hadn't they left yet?
It wasn't until she found herself seated at a small table in the Carlston family library—a warm, intimate space surrounded by leather-bound books and soft lamplight—that the answer became painfully clear.