Andrew stared at himself in the mirror for what felt like the millionth time that day. His reflection didn't change—same soft brown eyes, same tousled curls that refused to stay flat, same scar faintly visible on his right collarbone. No matter how many times he looked, he couldn't understand what Nova Volkov saw when she looked at him.
What did she see in a guy like him?
He was just a barista. A struggling interior design student. An orphan who'd lost everything twelve years ago in a fire that stole his childhood and burned away every trace of safety he'd ever known. He had nothing. No family. No legacy. Just a duffel bag full of clothes, some pencils, a laptop held together by duct tape, and a heart still learning how to beat in peace.
And she… she was a Volkov.
Nova Volkov, daughter of Elara—the world-renowned interior designer whose name sat comfortably among the elite—and Nikolai Volkov, a man whose surname could silence an entire room. A man whose shadow loomed long over both the legal and criminal underworlds. Some bowed to the Volkov name. Others worshipped it. There were cities where whispers of that name held more weight than the law.
The Volkovs had everything: real estate empires, offshore accounts, investments in oil, tech, fashion. They'd even built an elite hospital three years ago—just for their associates and their families. There was nothing they didn't touch. Nothing they didn't own.
Nova had grown up inside that world. Lavish vacations. Private tutors. Bodyguards. Unlimited access to resources most people couldn't dream of. Andrew had grown up inside shared rooms with peeling walls and broken locks. His childhood had been a collage of foster homes and cold stares. Meals served on plastic trays. Birthday parties celebrated alone, if remembered at all.
And now, Nova wanted him to stand beside her. At her art exhibit. As her plus one.
He sighed heavily and sat on the edge of his bed, the springs creaking under his weight. The room around him felt smaller tonight—his studio apartment barely large enough to contain his thoughts, let alone his anxiety. The fan in the corner hummed quietly, doing its best to stir the stale air.
He picked up his phone and unlocked it, fingers hesitating over the screen before typing her name into the Instagram search bar: @NovaVolkov.
Her account was public. Of course it was.
Her profile picture showed her with streaks of paint on her cheek, wild curls pulled into a high puff, eyes squinting as she laughed at something off camera. She looked alive in a way that he never had.
He scrolled.
A photo of her and Andrei, both covered head to toe in mud, grinning like they'd conquered the world. A video of her 18th birthday party, a luxurious garden event with string lights, a DJ, floating candles, and her private jet reveal. The caption was simple: "My wings came with engines. Thanks, Dad."
Further down, there were photos from luxury resorts. Nova with friends. Nova dancing barefoot in a hallway. Nova sketching something beside a rooftop infinity pool. Nova in Paris, sipping coffee at a balcony café. Nova lying on a canvas with swirls of blue and red smeared on her arms.
She was a whirlwind of life.
He was quiet static.
Andrew swallowed hard and set the phone down beside him. What was he doing? He didn't belong in her world. Not even close.
She was sunlight and brushstrokes.
He was soot and silence.
Memories bubbled up unbidden—memories of the night that changed everything. The night of the fire. The smell of smoke, the frantic screams, the unbearable heat. He remembered holding his baby brother's hand one moment… and the next, watching him disappear into the backyard pool, ablaze. Andrew had called 911. He had screamed until his voice was raw. But help never came.
Not until the next morning.
No one took the case seriously. No one followed the leads. And no one paid attention when the reports mysteriously disappeared.
He was ten.
He hadn't spoken for a month after that.
To this day, he couldn't stand the sight of deep water. Oceans, pools, even rivers—they all brought back the image of his brother submerged in flames, the ripples distorting his face. People mocked him for it. Said he was weird. Said he was weak.
Nova hadn't mocked him. Not really. But she didn't get it either. Not yet.
Andrew stood and walked back to the mirror. He looked again. Still the same reflection. Still the same hesitation.
She had said he didn't need to talk. That he could just stand beside her and keep quiet.
But how could he?
He would be surrounded by people like her. Rich, confident, spoiled socialites who wore wealth like armor. He'd be the outsider. The ghost in borrowed designer clothes.
Still, a small part of him wanted to try.
Because when she looked at him… she didn't look through him. She saw him. Somehow. In a way no one else ever had.
And maybe that was enough for now.
Maybe… just maybe… he could be brave enough to stand beside her.
Even if he didn't feel like he belonged.
Even if the past still haunted him.
He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow was the exhibit.
And he was going to try.
------------
Nova sat perfectly still as her makeup artist, a petite woman named Rosa, applied the final strokes to her lips. The deep mauve shade gave her an air of fierce elegance. She looked at her reflection in the large vanity mirror—flawless. Like someone straight out of a couture magazine. Which wasn't far from the truth. Nova had graced countless covers since she was a child. Her mother, Elara, had always called her a star, parading her before photographers like a precious gem.
"You're a masterpiece, darling," Rosa said, stepping back and admiring her work.
Nova stood, the silky hem of her dress slipping over her thighs as she moved. The off-shoulder gown hugged her curves perfectly, a deep slit running high up one leg. The fabric shimmered under the warm glow of her vanity lights. Her curls were pinned back in soft waves, revealing her sharp cheekbones and that trademark Volkov scowl—one of the few things she'd inherited from her father. Everything else? Pure Elara.
Her heels clicked elegantly against the marble floor as she descended the grand staircase of the villa. The moment she stepped into the living room, all conversations halted. Everyone was there—Elara and Nikolai on the couch, Elara nursing a lollipop as her baby bump rested under her hand. Little Andrei was on the carpet piecing together a dinosaur puzzle. Natalia and Dimitri sat near the fireplace, sipping wine. Anya lounged in an armchair, her boots kicked up over the armrest, and Viktor stood near the bar, pouring himself a whiskey.
Elara stood the moment she saw her daughter. "Oh, my baby. You look perfect."
Anya whistled low. "If you weren't my niece, I'd be in trouble."
"Anya," Dimitri said with a warning glare.
"What? I'm just complimenting her!" Anya raised her hands in mock surrender.
"She is a she, Anya. And you're getting old. I need to find a suitor for you."
"Dad, I'm thirty-three, not ancient. And trust me, you don't want to set me up with anyone," she replied, amused.
Nova smirked, but before Dimitri could protest further, she cleared her throat. "So, I'll be taking my own car tonight."
"Why?" Viktor asked.
"I have to pick someone up first."
There was a pause.
"Who?"
"My date," she replied nonchalantly, reaching for her clutch.
"Date?" Viktor and Dimitri echoed in unison.
"Yep. My exhibit organizer said I should bring a plus one since I'm officially eighteen. For the fans, you know?" she added, giving a cheeky grin.
Nikolai's jaw clenched.
"I'll see you guys at the venue," she said, breezing past them.
"Bro, are you okay with this?" Viktor muttered to Nikolai.
"Don't ask," Nikolai grunted, his fingers twitching around his whiskey glass.
Elara, amused, chuckled. "Don't bother with him. Go, baby. You're eighteen. If you listen to your dad, you'll die a virgin and single."
"Elara," Nikolai said sharply.
"What? It's true. She's not ten, Nikolai. And you can't guard her forever."
Nova laughed as she slipped out the door, the sound of her heels fading behind her.
—
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a warm amber glow across the city skyline as Nova pulled up outside Andrew's apartment. She parked the car and stepped out, smoothing her dress as she walked toward the door of the building.
Andrew was already waiting outside, pacing slightly, nervously fidgeting with something in his hand. He looked…cleaned up. No hoodie, no worn jeans. Just the tailored tux she got made for him. He looked uncomfortable, but polished. A far cry from the quiet barista she'd first met.
He straightened when he saw her, his breath visibly catching. "Wow…" he mumbled.
Nova smiled. "You clean up nicely."
"You look…" He trailed off. "Like someone I probably don't deserve to be standing next to."
"Cut that out," she said with a grin.
He hesitated, then held out a small bouquet of flowers—wildflowers, clearly handpicked, wrapped in newspaper. "I uh… got you something. I picked them up at the park on my way home. They're not much, but…"
Nova blinked, then took them gently from his hands.
"They're perfect," she said sincerely. "No one's ever given me flowers. Except my dad. And my uncle. And that doesn't count. You're the first boy to give me flowers."
He looked surprised. "Really?"
"Yep. And he's going to lose his mind when he finds out." She smiled, holding the flowers to her chest. "Which is exactly why I'll make sure he finds out."
Andrew chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Come on," Nova said, leading him to the car. "Let's go make some jaws drop."
The two of them got in, and Nova drove off into the night with the wind in her curls, flowers in her lap, and a nervous barista-turned-date beside her.