His Rival's Desire

The party was like every other gathering of rich, famous men he had attended. Expensive wine flowed endlessly, women draped in silk and heels, almost every man wearing a suit and tie — and he just had to be among the few without one, appearing oddly out of place. The wine carried too much alcohol. He knew that. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from drinking. Not when he knew what was coming next. It was the only thing steadying his nerves. Michael stepped onto the stage to announce the awards, the ballroom lights shining down on his perfectly gelled hair. “And the award goes to…” The suspense was suffocating. “Ilya Rozanov.” The name pierced through his skull like needles. It’s him again. It’s always him. Blonde, curly hair that didn’t need fixing. Piercing blue eyes. Sharp jawline. A perfectly built body. He was flawless in every way Shane was not. And now he was taking the award Shane had spent years working toward. The champagne glass in Shane’s hand cracked under his grip. He dropped it and headed toward the exit. But instead of leaving, he walked onto the balcony. The air was cold and refreshing, yet he felt overheated. Winter had only begun two weeks ago. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had worked too hard. And now here he was, sulking like a child. “Shane?” The thick Russian accent was unmistakable. Ilya. His greatest rival. Shane turned. Ilya stood there in a dark blue tuxedo that fit him sinfully well, clinging to all the right places as if tailored by temptation itself. He chuckled softly. “I thought I noticed you inside.” He walked toward him slowly, hands in his pockets. Shane sighed. No matter how much he despised this man, he wouldn’t make a scene. Not here. “Don’t act friendly, Rozanov. It doesn’t suit you,” he said stiffly. Speaking to him always felt like labor. No one else was on the balcony. No one would see the tension between them. He could walk away and no one would question it. “Come on,” Ilya said lightly. “It is my day. Can you not be a little kinder, no?” The accent. It irritated him. Intrigued him. Stirred emotions deep in his gut that he refused to name. Maybe that was the real reason he hated him. Not because Ilya excelled in business. Not because he kept winning awards Shane craved. But because of how Ilya made him feel — uncertain, unsettled, unsure of himself. “Piss off,” Shane muttered, turning toward the fountain in the rose garden, trying to quiet the storm inside him. Silence fell. He thought Ilya had left. Until he felt him beside him again. Close enough to hear his breathing. A rhythm he hated. A rhythm that felt disturbingly familiar. “Do you still play the guitar?” Shane’s breath stopped. He still remembered. The band they started. Ilya wasn’t just his business rival. He was his childhood best friend. They had grown up together. Nursery school. College. Everything. Until graduation. Until the fight. His father had crushed that part of him. No son of his would bring shame to the Vergo name. The visa to Spain had been arranged without discussion. The path chosen for him. Shane had panicked. He had pushed Ilya away. Ilya didn’t know about the pressure until graduation day. It became a stupid fight. Shane overreacted. He knew it. But pride kept him silent. Weeks later, Ilya left for Canada. Shane felt betrayed. He had given up his passion to stay close to him — and then Ilya left. There were messages. Calls. One drunken night when Shane almost called back. Then he lost his phone. And with it, Ilya. His childhood friend. The first man he ever loved. And perhaps still did. Shane turned. Ilya stared down at the garden, mirroring his stance, acting as if nothing had shattered between them. ‘Does he seriously think we can go back?’ Shane wondered, a mental sneer curling at the edge of his thoughts. A faint smile curved Ilya’s lips, the small mole on his fair skin visible beneath the moonlight. “I remember how obsessed you were,” he said quietly. “Reciting idol names and lyrics like your life depended on it.” What does he think he’s doing? Words built inside Shane, hot and volatile. If he spoke them, this entire mansion wouldn’t contain the explosion. But he was the future CEO of Vergo. Courtesy. Control. Composure. That was how he had been raised. His throat tightened painfully. He stepped back. “Excuse me,” he whispered, the word strained. He had barely taken a step when Ilya moved. Suddenly his body blocked Shane’s path. He stumbled slightly as Ilya’s hand slipped under his jacket, firm at his waist, guiding him back against the balcony pillar. “What—” The word died in his throat. Ilya’s scent was intoxicating. Familiar. Dangerous. Shane’s hand shot to his chest to push him away. Ilya didn’t move. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Rozanov?” Shane demanded, pushing harder. It was useless. The man clearly worked out. Shane barely had time for lunch most days, and here Ilya was, broad chest caging him in, solid and unyielding. They had both changed. Shane lifted his head to glare at him. But the look in Ilya’s piercing blue eyes was nothing like the one he wore on stage. Nothing like the composed businessman seen on television or in meetings. This was different. This was not the look the world knew. This was the look no one had seen. Not even once. “I had to leave, Shane.” The words fell between them like a confession the moon itself had dragged from his throat. Shane’s confusion was palpable. He blinked, unable to form a single thought, let alone a reply. The world had narrowed to the space between them. Their foreheads nearly touched. “I’ve missed you, Shane.” The admission slipped out before Shane could brace himself. His hands, which had been pressing against Ilya’s chest in protest, stilled instead. Beneath his palms, he felt it— Ilya’s heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Real. “I’ve really missed you,” Ilya whispered again, his thumb tightening slightly at Shane’s waist as though afraid he might vanish. “I couldn’t for once,” he said quietly, his accent thickening, roughening, “stop thinking about you.” For the first time since graduation, the rivalry felt thin. Fragile. Like glass stretched too tight. Like it had always been disguising something else beneath it. Something alive. Something that had never truly died. Ilya’s face moved closer—dangerously close. His scent wrapped around Shane, warm and intoxicating, tearing through every ounce of practiced restraint. It wasn’t just cologne. It was something deeper. Something instinctual. Familiar. Shane reached out. Not because his father would never hear of this. Not because no one but the stars bore witness. But because he wanted this. He had wanted it since that night in the forest cabin—when the world had seemed smaller, quieter, when Ilya’s presence had steadied the storm inside him, when heat and instinct had blurred every line Shane had sworn never to cross. Their lips brushed. A spark. Sharp. Electric. It shot through Shane’s veins like wildfire, igniting something ancient, something buried beneath tailored suits and boardroom expectations. For a heartbeat, the world tilted. And then— “Shane? Is that you?” Hayden’s voice cut through the night. Shane felt as if a bucket of ice had been poured over him. Reality slammed back into place. He didn’t think. He couldn’t. He shoved Ilya away, breaking the fragile connection, forcing distance between them. Ilya stepped back into the wash of moonlight, his expression unreadable, shadows carving his features into something wilder than Shane remembered. Hayden’s footsteps approached, sharp against the stone. Shane’s pulse roared in his ears. Hayden froze mid-step. His gaze flicked between them, confusion sharpening into something wary. The breeze carried the faint scent of pine from the gardens below—and something far more primal. Shane swallowed, but it did nothing to steady the heat rising through his veins. His senses felt too sharp. He could hear Hayden’s heartbeat now. Could almost feel the tension in the night pressing against his skin. Ilya’s eyes were no longer just blue. They glinted. Reflective. Predatory. ”Shane Hollander,” Hayden said slowly, voice no longer merely confused but edged with alarm. “I hope you have a very good explanation for your father, no?”