Chapter Text
While Grigori Rozanov spoke, Ilya let his eyes drift around the room. Years ago, he’d learned how to tune him out, how to absorb the important parts without ever giving him his full attention. Carrying the Rozanov name required certain skills. One of them was learning how to pretend.
He would have rather been anywhere else tonight than trapped in this painfully dull evening among dozens of powerful men and their self-important children. Drinking with his friends would have been preferable. Sitting alone at home would have been preferable.
As he scanned the lavish ballroom, his gaze caught on a familiar side profile.
With his immaculate hair, sharp nose, and dark gray suit, Shane Hollander looked breathtaking tonight.
Ilya let himself stare at the rival heir turned partly toward him for exactly as long as he allowed himself to. If he were closer, he thought, he’d be able to catch the scent of his cologne, see the glint of the thin diamond chain around his neck, hear that unmistakable voice. And he’d be able to see those freckles up close.
The direction of his thoughts unsettled him enough that he forced his attention elsewhere.
Of course David Hollander was here too. Ilya was surprised Yuna hadn’t come. She normally never missed events like this.
David laughed warmly at something Shane had said, and Ilya felt his throat tighten. Father and son looked alike in all the ways that mattered, and completely different in all the others. At least, he thought bitterly, he’d inherited only his mother’s face. That was the one consolation he allowed himself.
That was when Grigori suddenly raised his voice and stepped closer.
Ilya forced himself not to recoil before finally looking at his father. “Yes, Father.”
“You say yes, but were you actually listening to me?” Grigori snapped in Russian.
“I heard you,” Ilya replied evenly. “The people in this room matter. The bid matters. And apparently tonight is another opportunity for me to prove I can behave like your heir instead of embarrassing you in front of potential partners.”
Grigori Rozanov looked momentarily caught off guard, but the expression vanished behind a hard frown almost instantly.
“You are not going to behave like a delinquent in front of the people I introduce you to.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you know any answer besides that one?”
“Then why don’t you bring Alexei instead?” Ilya shot back quietly. “At least he’d be happy to stand beside you.”
That made his father lower his voice into something far more dangerous.
The moment Ilya heard that terrible whisper, his head dipped automatically. He didn’t want to look at his father’s face.
“You know exactly why,” Grigori murmured. “The two of you are equally disappointing in different ways, but you’re the one I’m forced to work with. Don’t even think about humiliating me tonight.”
“Yes, Father,” Ilya answered again, this time deliberately.
When Grigori turned his head in irritation, his gaze landed on the exact same sight Ilya had been staring at moments earlier.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Just look at that Hollander boy.”
Shane Hollander stood across the ballroom surrounded by people twice his age, listening with the kind of calm attentiveness that made everyone around him seem louder somehow. Perfect posture. Perfect smile. Effortlessly composed.
Grigori scoffed quietly. “I heard his grades are exceptional. Better than yours by a mile.” His mouth twisted with something dangerously close to admiration. “David doesn’t brag about his son for no reason.”
Beside him, Ilya felt something hot and ugly coil tight beneath his ribs.
He wondered if Shane had any idea how often his name came up in the Rozanov household. How often he was held up like a measuring stick. A threat. A reminder.
Be more disciplined like Hollander.
More polished. More controlled. More useful.
Even though a curse burned at the back of his throat, Ilya said nothing. He kept his expression blank and stared ahead instead, jaw tight enough to ache.
“Come,” Grigori said after a moment. “Let’s speak to him before the Hollanders get there.”
A few minutes later, they crossed the ballroom toward one of the men everyone in the industry had been orbiting all evening. The upcoming waterfront redevelopment bid had half the city’s major firms clawing at each other behind closed doors, and apparently this man’s approval could tilt the entire project in one direction.
The moment they reached him, Grigori’s demeanor transformed. His smile became effortless. His voice warmer, almost charming.
He shook the man’s hand with unexpected enthusiasm before introducing Ilya as though presenting an investment rather than a son. Ilya matched the tone instantly, offering a polished smile and a firm handshake, slipping neatly into the role expected of him.
He was good at this part. Good at looking composed. Interested. Well-bred.
Only a few seconds passed before the familiar presence of the Hollander family joined them.
David Hollander greeted the man easily, carrying none of Grigori’s strained eagerness beneath the surface confidence. Unlike Grigori, he introduced both himself and Shane in the same breath, his hand briefly touching Shane’s shoulder as he spoke.
Not an asset. Not a warning.
Just his son.
The realization irritated Ilya far more than it should have.
Soon enough, the conversation shifted fully into business. Zoning approvals. Financing structures. Political leverage. The kind of careful corporate language designed to sound clean while concealing threats beneath every sentence.
As the two older men became absorbed in discussion, Shane Hollander stepped slightly aside with his champagne glass in hand, clearly just as uninterested in the conversation as Ilya was.
For a brief moment, they stood shoulder to shoulder in uneasy silence.
“Looks like they’re negotiating the fate of the country over there,” Shane murmured dryly, glancing toward the older men.
Ilya let out a quiet scoff. “No. Just arguing over which billionaire gets to ruin the skyline.”
That earned him the faintest hint of a smile.
“Careful,” Shane said. “Someone might hear you.”
“And what would happen then?”
Shane took a sip of champagne. “Your father would probably adopt me.”
“Wouldn’t sharing a last name with my notoriously awful father damage your golden boy image, Hollander?”
For the first time that evening, Shane turned fully toward him.
Up close, he looked even worse for Ilya’s peace of mind. Sharp brown eyes. Expensive cologne. Those distracting freckles scattered across his skin like something deliberately designed to irritate him.
“Golden boy?” Shane echoed lightly. “That’s what you think I am?”
“It’s what everyone says,” Ilya replied without missing a beat.
Shane hummed, taking a slow sip of his drink as if considering that.
“And you,” he said after a moment, eyes flicking over Ilya with faint amusement, “you’re apparently the troublesome heir, Rozanov.”
Ilya’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Shane continued casually. “I’ve heard you show up at school once a month just long enough to remind everyone you’re still enrolled, and somehow still manage to get into trouble every time.”
Ilya let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh.
“They were being generous,” he said, though he knew most of what people said about him was already exaggerated in the first place.
Since the moment the Hollander family and the Rozanov family had built their respective empires in Canada, the media had been obsessed with turning their so-called rivalry into a spectacle.
Two heirs. Same age. Both young, both striking in a way that translated too easily into headlines.
Old money versus new money. Established power versus aggressive expansion. The golden boy against the bad boy.
It didn’t matter that neither of them had actually taken full control of their companies yet. The narrative had already been written for them.
The press followed their appearances, their education, even their social events with an almost predatory interest, as if trying to map out the future of Canada’s two largest private holdings through two young men who were still, officially, just heirs in training.
Before Shane could reply, the sharp flash of a camera cut through the dim amber lighting of the corner. Ilya didn’t even blink; the instinct to mask his expression was too deeply ingrained.
Across from him, Shane’s posture shifted instantly. The dry, almost human amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by that smooth, impenetrable political smile the Hollanders wore like armor.
"Look at this," a voice chirped from behind the photographer; one of the city's prominent lifestyle editors, already looking at them like they were a headline waiting to happen. "The two crown princes sharing a corner. Am I interrupting a hostile takeover, or are we finally getting that truce the papers keep praying for?"
"A truce?" Ilya scoffed, leaning back against the high table with a lazy, deliberate arrogance. He slipped into the persona expected of him without a single stutter. "I think you need a shared ground for a truce, Charlotte. The Hollanders are still trying to figure out how to build on the waterfront without losing their historical preservation tax credits. We're actually ready to pour concrete."
Shane’s smile didn’t waver, but his voice dropped an octave, carrying that cold, old-money condescension that always made Ilya’s blood boil. "Pouring concrete is easy, Rozanov. Doing it without a pending environmental lawsuit is the part your father’s legal team seems to struggle with."
A few onlookers chuckled. The editor practically beamed, typing something into her phone.
It was a perfect performance. They gave the room exactly what it wanted: the aggressive, rule-breaking newcomer clashing with the poised, untouchable establishment.
But as Shane excused himself with a flawless nod and walked away, Ilya watched his retreating back with a strange, hollow sensation.
He doesn't know me at all, Ilya thought, his hand tightening around his glass. Shane knew the headlines. He knew the court dates and the bad reputation. But he didn't know the suffocating weight of Grigori's whispers in the dark, or the terrifying emptiness of the Rozanov house. And Ilya didn't know Shane. He didn't know what made the golden boy’s hands shake when he thought no one was looking, or if he even wanted the empire he was being bred to rule.
They were two ghosts haunting the same social circles, forced to hate each other by script.
An hour later, as the gala finally began to wind down, Ilya couldn't take the suffocating air of the ballroom for another second. Muttering a vague excuse to his father’s assistant, he slipped through the heavy double doors toward the private valet lounge in the lower pavilion: a secluded, concrete corridor reserved for VIP departures.
The air down there was colder, smelling of exhaust and expensive damp concrete.
Ilya leaned against a concrete pillar, finally pulling a crushed pack of cigarettes from his inner pocket. He flicked his lighter, the small flame illuminating the gray walls, and took a long, dragging breath. He needed the burn in his lungs to drown out his father’s voice.
"You're going to ruin your jacket," a cold voice echoed from the shadows. "And your father's reputation if someone walks down here."
Ilya didn't even look up as Shane Hollander stepped into the dim light. Shane looked as immaculate as he had all night; not a single hair out of place, hands casually tucked into his trousers. The very sight of his perfection turned the simmering frustration in Ilya’s chest into something sharp and volatile.
"Let him burn," Ilya muttered, blowing a cloud of smoke directly into the space between them. "And what are you doing down here, Hollander? Looking for a mirror, or just escaping your adoring public?"
Shane stopped a few feet away, his mouth twisting into a judgmental line. "I was waiting for my car. But I see the rumors are true. You really can’t last two hours without sliding back into your delinquent habits."
Ilya let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He took one last drag, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it slowly beneath his leather shoe. "You know, I am so sick of hearing your name."
"Then stop bringing me up."
"I don't bring you up," Ilya said, stepping forward until he was completely invading Shane's personal space. The scent of Shane's expensive, crisp cologne mixed with the bitter smell of tobacco. "My father does. 'Look at the Hollander boy. Look how perfect he is.' It’s exhausting. Especially when I look at you and all I see is a hollow doll playing dress-up for his daddy."
Shane's jaw tightened instantly. That smooth, political mask finally cracked, his brown eyes flashing with a sudden, genuine fury. "You don't know anything about my life, Rozanov. You're just a spoiled, aggressive brat who thinks throwing tantrums makes him look tough."
"Want to see tough?" Ilya sneered.
Driven by a sudden, irrational surge of adrenaline, Ilya grabbed the lapels of Shane's dark gray suit jacket and shoved him backward.
Shane’s back hit the concrete pillar with a dull thud. For a second, Shane looked shocked, but the shock turned into pure anger. He didn't back down. He grabbed Ilya’s wrists, his grip surprisingly strong, trying to wrench his hands off his jacket.
"Let go of me," Shane hissed, shoving Ilya back in return.
Ilya stumbled, but instantly lunged forward again. This time, his movement wasn't just a shove; he slammed his entire weight against Shane, pinning him back against the pillar. Their bodies collided with a heavy, breathless impact. Ilya’s hands slid from the lapels up to Shane’s collar, fingers tangling in the expensive fabric, his forearms pressing hard against Shane’s chest.
They scrambled against each other, a clumsy, heated mess of expensive wool, tangled limbs, and pent-up hostility. Shane managed to twist his arm up, his fingers locking around Ilya's throat for a desperate second to push him away, but Ilya only leaned in heavier, refusing to give an inch.
Then, abruptly, the violent shifting stopped.
Shane managed to pin Ilya's right arm down against the cold stone, their breathing heavy and ragged in the quiet of the corridor. Shane's immaculate hair had finally fallen messy over his forehead, a few dark strands catching on his eyelashes.
For a single, suspended second, they were completely locked together. Staring at each other with pure, unadulterated venom, but the air between them had suddenly turned suffocatingly thick.
They were too close. Closer than they had ever been in their lives.
Ilya’s chest was heaving directly against Shane’s, the rapid, chaotic beat of their hearts blurring into one rhythm. Ilya’s gaze dropped instinctively, just for a fraction of a second, to the sharp line of Shane’s jaw, then to his lips, parted as he gasped for air. He could feel the literal heat radiating off Shane's skin, swallowing the scent of his cologne mixed with the bitter taste of the tobacco still lingering on his own tongue.
Shane’s grip on Ilya's arm tightened, but the raw violence of the shove had melted into something else: a tense, rigid hold that felt less like pushing away and more like anchoring down. Shane was staring back at him, his dark brown eyes blown wide, his gaze fiercely tracking the movement of Ilya’s mouth, then lifting to lock with his eyes. There was a sudden, terrifying shift in the silence; the anger hadn't faded, but it had warped into something dizzying, heavy, and dangerously loaded.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them broke the contact. For that stretched, agonizing moment, the performative rivalry was gone, replaced by a raw, physical awareness so intense that Ilya felt a sudden, sharp ache in his throat.
They were so entirely consumed by the friction of their own bodies, by the terrifying realization of what that heat actually meant, that they never heard the heavy steel doors click open.
The attack was silent and clinical.
Before Ilya could throw another punch, a heavy, armored arm wrapped around his neck from behind, ripping him away from Shane. Ilya choked, violently thrashing against the crushing grip, his boots scuffing loudly against the concrete floor.
"Shane—" Ilya choked out, though he didn't even know why he was calling his name.
Through the chaotic blur, he saw two masked figures in black tactical gear tackle Shane to the ground. Shane fought like a wild animal, his polished exterior completely disintegrating as he kicked and scratched, a raw, desperate sound tearing from his throat. He managed to punch one of them in the jaw, but the second man pinned his legs, throwing his entire weight onto Shane's chest.
Ilya tried to use his elbows to break the hold on his own neck, but a sharp, sudden sting at the side of his throat made his entire body freeze. A syringe.
"Hold him down," a muffled voice commanded.
Within seconds, the chemical rushed through Ilya’s veins like liquid ice. His limbs turned to lead, his fingers losing their grip on the attacker's sleeve. His knees buckled, and he was dropped heavily onto the cold, dirty concrete.
Through his fading, blurry vision, he watched them slide a black hood over Shane’s head. Shane was still weakly struggling, his expensive suit dragging through the oil stains on the floor, his movements slowing down just like Ilya's.
The world began to narrow into a dark tunnel. The gala, the waterfront bid, Grigori’s expectations, and the entire city slipped away into nothingness. The last thing Ilya saw before darkness claimed him completely was Shane’s motionless hand lying just inches away from his own on the cold floor, the thin diamond chain around his neck catching the dim garage light one last time.
He opened his eyes into pitch blackness. After blinking a few times, his vision adjusted just enough to make out the shape of the room. As the heavy fog in his mind slowly cleared, he realized he wasn't looking at his own bedroom ceiling.
The concrete above him was dangerously low, oppressive, and crisscrossed with thin, weeping cracks. There were no ornate moldings, no soft glow of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows. Just an absolute, deadening silence.
As Ilya tried to move, a violent spike of nausea rolled through his stomach, forcing him back down onto the thin, stiff mattress. His temples throbbed with a rhythmic, heavy ache; the unmistakable hangover of whatever chemical they’d pumped into his veins. He lifted a trembling hand to his neck; the skin near his collarbone was swollen and fiercely tender to the touch.
Slowly, the pieces of the evening began to click back into place. The suffocating gala. Grigori’s harsh whispers. The cold valet corridor. The sudden, dizzying heat of Shane’s body pressed against his own under the concrete pillar…
Ilya’s eyes snapped wide. A cold shock of adrenaline pierced through the chemical haze, making his heart hammer violently against his ribs.
He forced himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the vicious spin of the room. The air was freezing, carrying the sharp, bitter scent of damp stone, cheap laundry detergent, and something entirely out of place in a concrete cell.
Crisp, expensive cologne.
His breath caught. He turned his head so fast his vision blurred, his eyes scanning the dim, shadow-drenched perimeter.
There was no second cot. There was almost nothing. The room was a brutal, stripped-down box of concrete and exposed wood. A single, heavy wooden table sat in the corner, its edges rounded out, bolted to the floor with screws that had been deliberately filed down to smooth, un-grippable nubs. No chairs. No glass. No metallic edges. Even the window had been completely obliterated; covered from the outside by thick, heavy planks of wood, with only tiny, suffocating slivers of gray daylight bleeding through the seams.
And right there, sharing the exact same narrow mattress with him, was Shane Hollander.
A heavy, suffocating weight settled onto Ilya’s chest, making it impossible to breathe. The realization didn't just hit him; it paralyzed him. They were kidnapped. Taken. Locked like fucking animals in the exact same room.
Shane lay completely motionless beside him, close enough that his shoulder was nearly brushing Ilya's hip. The dark gray wool of his suit jacket was visibly torn at the shoulder, the white dress shirt beneath it rumpled and stained with grime. His immaculate hair was a wild, tangled mess against the single, flat pillow they were forced to share.
"Hollander," Ilya tried to say, but his voice came out as a pathetic, dry rasp. His chest tightened, a borderline panic clawing at his throat as he looked at the sheer emptiness of the room. There was no escape. No weapons. Nothing to break. "Shane."
The figure beside him stirred.
A sharp, breathless gasp echoed through the small space as Shane suddenly bolted upright, his hands flying to his chest as if checking for a wound. He shook his head violently, a low, panicked groan tearing from his throat as he blinked into the dimness.
"Don't move too fast," Ilya muttered, his voice dropping into a low, flat baritone, though his own pulse was roaring like a freight train in his ears. "You'll throw up."
Shane froze. In the weak gray light slicing through the boarded window, Ilya watched the exact moment reality crashed back into Shane's mind. He didn't look at the walls. He didn't look at the ceiling. His head snapped directly toward Ilya, his dark eyes wide, wild, and completely stripped of the untouchable golden-boy armor he had worn only hours ago.
"Rozanov?" Shane’s voice fractured, thin and breathless. He clutched the rough fabric of the mattress, his knuckles turning white as he realized they were pinned to the exact same narrow bed. "Where... where the fuck are we? Where is everyone?"
"I don't know," Ilya said, his voice tightly controlled to hide the tremor in his hands. He shifted slightly, his bare feet hitting the freezing concrete floor. His leather shoes were gone. "But we're entirely on our own."
Shane looked down at his own bare feet, then at the dead bolted furniture, and finally back at Ilya. The lingering shock in his expression began to warp, hardening into a defensive, volatile spark of anger as he looked at the man he had been wrestling with just before the world went black.
"Fuck," Shane whispered. His voice was broken, stripped of its usual pristine weight. "This can't be fucking real."
Ilya blinked at him through the dim, suffocating gray light. In all the years he had spent tracking Shane Hollander through headlines, television interviews, and tense cross-room glances, he had never once heard the golden boy drop an unfiltered curse word. Hearing it now, raspy and raw, felt like watching the first major structural crack in a palace wall.
"My phone," Shane said suddenly, bolting into a rigid sit. His breath hitched as his hands frantically slapped against the dusty fabric of his trousers, searching his pockets with a desperate, jerky rhythm. "Where is my—"
Ilya already knew the answer. Professional enough to blindside both families in a secure VIP vault wouldn't leave them with a direct line to the outside world. It was the first thing they would have stripped away. Yet, despite the cold logic freezing his brain, a desperate, irrational surge made Ilya trace his own empty pockets. Nothing.
Then his wrist felt strangely light. He looked down; his watch was gone too. The heavy, customized platinum piece was gone.
A sudden, sharp spike of ice-cold panic shot through his chest. Instinct took over, his fingers flying straight to his collarbone, tearing at the top buttons of his shirt until his knuckles brushed against the familiar, thin gold chain. His fingertips caught on the small, smooth cross.
Still there.
It was the only thing he had left of his mother. Ilya let out a shaky, jagged breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his thumb rubbing it just to prove to himself it wasn't a hallucination.
He glanced up and noticed the faint, metallic glint against the pale skin of Shane’s throat. The thin diamond chain Shane had been wearing all evening was still resting there, untouched. It was a bizarre, calculated choice by their captors. They had stripped them of their connection to the world, their technology, and their wealth, but they had left them their ghosts.
Shane's hands slowly dropped from his empty pockets, his chest heaving as he stared blankly at the bolted wooden table across the room. The reality of their absolute nakedness was setting in.
"We're kidnapped," Shane whispered, the word sounding heavy, foreign, and terrifyingly real as it left his mouth. He finally looked up, his eyes wide and wild as they locked onto Ilya. "We're actually fucking kidnapped. Who did this, Rozanov? Who the hell does your father owe money to this time?"
Ilya’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He slid off the edge of the mattress, his bare feet hitting the freezing concrete, instantly narrowing the small distance between them. "My father? You're pointing fingers at my family right now?"
"Yes, your family!" Shane shot back, his voice rising, breaking through the tight constraints of his usual polite cadence. He scrambled off the bed too, but the room was so small they were practically forced back into each other's faces. "Everyone knows how Grigori operates. The aggressive bids, the hostile takeovers, the suspicious private equity. Your father plays dirty. He treats the entire shipping and construction sector like a personal battlefield. Which of his disgruntled 'partners' decided to handle it this way?"
"Shut your fucking mouth," Ilya hissed, stepping closer until his chest was inches from Shane's. The raw venom from the valet corridor was back, but this time, it was laced with the cold dread of reality. "Don't act like your family is made of saints, Hollander. You old-money bastards love to play the victim, but David has been chokeholding the city's infrastructure for twenty years. How many people did your family ruin to build their pristine empire? How many small firms went under so you could wear that diamond chain around your neck?"
"My father doesn't engage with criminals!" Shane yelled, a flush of angry red creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks.
"Oh, really? Then why am I in this room with you?" Ilya sneered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. "If this was just about the Rozanovs, I'd be in a cell by myself. Whoever did this went out of their way to drag the golden boy out of his castle. Look around, Hollander. There are no two beds. No luxury. They threw us in the exact same cage because to them, we are the exact same thing: collateral."
Shane stared at him, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He opened his mouth to deliver another sharp, defensive retort, but the sheer logic of Ilya's words seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, his gaze darting from Ilya’s furious eyes to the terrifyingly bare, concrete walls around them.
The weight of the situation was settling between them, thick and suffocating.
Shane’s chest heaved, his mouth slightly open as he stared at Ilya. The fierce, defensive flush on his neck slowly faded, leaving him looking incredibly pale under the weak slivers of gray daylight. He looked down at his own dirt-stained hands, his shoulders sinking as the anger completely drained out of him, leaving nothing but raw, unprotected exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," Shane murmured quietly.
The words were short, barely audible, but they hit the silence of the room like a physical weight. Ilya froze. He had expected more fire, more arrogance, another sharp retort about the Rozanovs' reputation. This quiet, unfiltered vulnerability didn't fit the script. Underneath that immaculate armor was just a terrifyingly normal twenty-one-year-old who was realizing his father’s name couldn't save him here.
Ilya stood perfectly still, keeping his expression locked in a mask of cold, unbothered arrogance. He was good at looking like he was handling it. He had spent his entire life learning how to look dangerous when he was backed into a corner, hiding behind the lazy, bratty persona that everyone expected from him.
But beneath his ribs, his heart was tearing itself apart. A suffocating wave of panic was clawing at his throat, so intense it made his fingertips feel numb. His bare feet were freezing against the concrete, and the sheer emptiness of the room was pressing in on him from all sides. He wanted to scream, to kick the bolted table, to rip the planks off the window until his hands bled. But if he broke, they both broke. So he kept his jaw tight and stared down at Shane.
Shane rubbed a hand over his face, completely ruining whatever was left of his styled hair. He looked up, his dark eyes hollow. "Do you really... do you really not have any idea who might have done this? No rumors? Nothing your father muttered behind closed doors?"
"Nothing," Ilya said, his voice flat, forced into a steady baritone. "My father doesn't share his strategic mistakes with me, Hollander."
Shane let out a dry, humorless breath through his nose. He leaned his lower back against the heavy, bolted wooden table, staring at the floorboards between them.
"I don't know anything either," Shane admitted softly, his voice dropping into a quiet confession that felt entirely too intimate for the space they were in. "Everyone thinks I'm being groomed for the CEO position, that I'm studying every bid, every contract. But the truth is... I don't even look at the files. I don't care about the waterfront redevelopment. I don't care about the real estate holdings. I just show up to the galas because my father asks me to."
He lifted his eyes to lock with Ilya's, a heavy, tragic honesty passing between them.
"I don't know anything about his business," Shane whispered. "I don't know who hates him enough to do this."
Ilya watched him, the dangerous, volatile heat from their earlier argument settling into something much heavier, much more permanent. The media called them rivals, their families called them enemies, but standing in the freezing gray light of a concrete cell, stripped of their shoes, their phones, and their names, they were exactly the same. Two clueless boys playing roles in a war they hadn't started, now trapped in the exact same cage.