CASSIAN

  Power is quiet. It doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t demand attention. It is felt.

  I sit at my usual spot—center of the auction hall, a space left untouched around me. No one stands too close. They know better. The men here are powerful, wealthy beyond reason, but even they understand the rules of dominance.

  It’s not about who has the most money or who owns the most property. It’s about presence.

  And I own every room I walk into.

  Lorenzo leans in slightly, keeping his voice low. “The Russian wants to talk.”

  I don’t acknowledge him immediately. I lift my glass, watching the whiskey swirl against the crystal, letting the silence stretch. Letting him wait. Then, finally—

  “Not tonight.”

  Lorenzo nods. No argument. That’s why he’s still useful. That’s why he’s still alive.

  The auctioneer’s voice drones on, rattling off numbers I have no interest in. Across the room, a politician I own is rubbing his fingers together, restless. The kind of man who likes the illusion of control but bends when I press my thumb against his spine.

  A woman in red glides past our table, deliberate in her movements. Her perfume clings to the air. She slows slightly as she passes, waiting for me to look at her.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I don’t.

  She hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, then keeps walking.

  The evening moves like it always does—predictable, seamless, mine.

  And then, it shifts.

  It’s subtle at first. A presence, not a sound. The air tightens, like something unseen has entered the space. The murmur of voices doesn’t stop, but there’s a hesitation—a barely perceptible stutter in the rhythm of the room.

  I don’t move. Don’t react. I take another slow sip of my whiskey. Waiting.

  Then I see her.

  And everything stops.

  She doesn’t belong here.

  That’s the first thing I know.

  The second thing—the one I can’t quite place—is that she should.

  She’s standing under the chandelier light, the glow catching the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the silk of her black dress. Not flashy. Not understated. Just… deliberate.

  Like a wolf dressed in quiet elegance.

  She moves carefully, her gaze flicking around the room, scanning faces. Searching.

  I exhale slowly through my nose, my fingers tightening around my glass.

  Something about her isn’t right.

  She’s poised, but there’s tension in her movements—like a wire pulled too tight. Like she’s absorbing every detail, storing it away.

  And then—her eyes find mine.

  The moment stretches.

  People don’t look at me like that. Not directly, not without some emotion behind it—fear, awe, desperation.

  But she doesn’t show any of those things.

  She just looks.

  And for the first time in a long time, something presses against my ribs, something I can’t name. Something unfamiliar.

  I don’t like unfamiliar.

  She tilts her head slightly, her lips parting like she might say something. But she doesn’t.

  She doesn’t smirk. She doesn’t fidget.

  She just stands there.

  And then—she turns away.

  Like I’m nothing.

  Like I never existed.

  The tension in my chest coils tighter, a sharp, precise thing that shouldn’t be there.

  She’s no one. I should forget her.

  But I already know I won’t.