His Name Was Never On The Guest List

The guest list had 132 names. Ava Monroe knew because she had vetted every single one of them herself-twice. Not just the names, but their background checks, company records, scandal history, net worths, blood types, and shoe sizes if necessary. That was her job. And no one got past her. Not at an event like this. Not at Leclair Island. So when the chopper landed thirty minutes ahead of schedule, kicking up sand and ocean spray onto the manicured beachfront, Ava's first instinct was control.

She was already halfway down the path from the main villa, clipboard in hand, earpiece buzzing with updates from her team. "Is this the Legrand arrival?" she asked. "No," came the voice in her ear. "Legrand's still en route." Ava's steps slowed. The blades of the rotor cut into the sky like knives as the aircraft lowered to the pad. One figure stepped out. Alone. No staff, no entourage. A man. Tall, precise, dressed in black from neck to toe. His suit moved with his body like it had been tailored by someone with a god complex. His expression was unreadable. His eyes-too far to see clearly yet-seemed to scan the villa with surgical awareness. She hated him already. He was unannounced, off-schedule, and definitely not listed. She tightened her grip on the clipboard and intercepted him halfway up the welcome path. "Excuse me," she said, voice clipped but polite. "Can I have your name, please?" The man stopped. He was close enough now for her to take him in properly-late thirties, maybe, with olive skin, a sharp jawline, and just the faintest trace of stubble. No visible ID. No invitation code. His eyes-dark, almost black-moved over her face with unnerving stillness. "No name," he said coolly. Ava blinked. "Then you're not on the list." "No," he agreed. She frowned. "This is a private event. I'm going to need you to-" "I'm exactly where I'm meant to be," he interrupted. And just like that, he stepped past her. She followed instantly, falling in beside him. "I don't think you understand-" "I understand perfectly, Ms. Monroe." She froze. He didn't. He kept walking, straight toward the villa like he knew it better than she did. She spun around. "How do you know my name?" No response. Her earpiece crackled. "Ava? Problem at the bar. The bride-to-be is threatening to drown the bartender because he served vodka instead of gin-" "Handle it," Ava snapped, turning the volume down. She looked back. The man had reached the base of the marble steps leading to the main villa entrance. Two of Victor Leclair's private security guards stood there. And instead of stopping him, they stepped aside. Letting him in. Her stomach tightened. Who the hell could do that? The guards weren't just muscle-they were Leclair loyalists. Nobody got past them without explicit clearance from the man himself. Nobody. She pulled aside one of the junior event assistants rushing by. "Hey! That man in the black suit-who is he?" The girl looked over. Her face went pale. "I don't know. But I think he's... one of them." Ava frowned. "Them?" The girl leaned closer. "Victor's circle. The old-money ones. The ones no one talks about." And just like that, the man disappeared inside. No name. No invitation. No right. Just the echo of his shoes on marble and the way he'd said her name like it belonged to him.