Two years before the auction.
Seraphina Vale had never believed in fairy tales. Not really. But Julian Cristoff made it feel like they were building one together.
She'd met him when she was still studying at the university. He was nine years older, dressed in quiet luxury, and spoke with the kind of calm confidence that made you believe him before you even understood what he was saying. Gabe had introduced them at a gala fundraiser thrown by the board of the ballet conservatory.
"Julian runs logistics for ValeCorp now," Gabe had said that night, already buzzed on champagne. "Golden boy. Our mother loves him more than me. You probably will too."
He was wrong.
She didn’t love Julian right away.
It took a week.
A week of coffee left on her piano. Notes slipped under her door. Of him showing up to watch her rehearse, never interrupting, just watching—like she was a piece of music only he could hear.
He didn’t rush
They reached the safehouse just after sunset, the wind along the Adriatic growing stronger, biting at the edges of every word spoken and every breath taken. The air smelled of sea and salt and quiet vengeance. Inside, they moved with precision—no wasted steps, no hesitation.Lucio was safe. That truth anchored everything.Seraphina had made sure of it, sacrificing herself just to rescue him and save Lucien. Elian had secured a secure compound under Interpol jurisdiction. Reinforced, guarded, isolated. The kind of place where a three-year-old genius with a photographic memory could finally sleep without the threat of being used.But safety didn’t mean the war was over.Lucien stood by the reinforced glass, watching the sea beyond. He hadn’t spoken in a full ten minutes. Not since they confirmed Lucio was tucked in and protected. His silence was not from relief—it was the calm before something far colder.“They’re still out there,” he said at last.Vincenzo didn’t need to ask who.“They
Seraphina’s words lingered like the echo of a siren in Lucien’s ears.They tried to rewrite me.He had seen the fear in her eyes before, but this was not that. It was something deeper. It was the look of someone who had faced death, manipulation, confusion, and come out the other side with her mind sharpened like a blade. She was not broken.She was sharpening.Vincenzo watched from a few feet away as Lucien moved to stand closer beside her. He was quiet, but his eyes were tracking every twitch of movement in the treeline and every fluctuation in Seraphina’s voice.Seraphina stood under the cold wash of moonlight, the wind whipping her dark hair across her face. Her expression had settled into unreadable calm, but something about the way her fingers flexed near her side gave her away. Not to most—but to Lucien, it was enough.She was not under control. She was playing a part.Lucien watched her in silence for a few more seconds, letting his eyes scan her posture, her breaths, even the
Lucien froze as Seraphina stepped into the corridor. Her body moved with deliberate grace, but her face betrayed nothing. Not relief. Not surprise. Not fear.Not recognition.He lowered his weapon a fraction. Vincenzo and Matteo hung back, silent, waiting."Seraphina," Lucien said, his voice quiet but clear.She blinked once, slowly. Her head tilted as if considering the weight of the name.Then she smiled. A small, practiced smile. The kind she used at embassy dinners years ago when she was keeping secrets."Lucien," she said.The name came out right, but her tone was wrong.Too neutral. Too steady.Not how she should sound after all that had happened.He took a step forward."You sent the message. You marked the table. We came for you.""I know," she said, hands at her sides. Her posture never shifted.Behind them, the door sealed itself with a soft mechanical hiss.Matteo raised his weapon again.Lucien glanced over his shoulder. "Hold."Something about the air had changed. It was
The air in the safehouse was heavy with focus. Morning light filtered through slatted blinds, cutting pale bars of gold across the hardwood floor. Lucien sat at the head of the central planning table, hunched over a file that Matteo had decrypted during the early hours. It was a mess of redacted memos, contract routes, and deployment manifests, each piece a fragment of Tobias Marren's movement pattern.Vincenzo leaned over his shoulder, pointing at a line of numbers."This one repeats. Every third week, same airspace, same burn pattern. He’s using a privately leased jet under the alias Renner Kael."Lucien nodded slowly. "Has the flight touched down?""Ten minutes ago. Tripoli sector, just outside the secondary commercial field. Not a major hub. Private carriers only."Matteo brought up a live feed from a drone circling overhead. On the screen, a man in a dark field jacket and sunglasses stepped down the metal stairs from the jet, flanked by two plainclothes escorts."That's him," Matt
The sound came first. Dull, mechanical, steady.Lucien blinked once.Then again.A slow, rhythmic beeping, like a clock carved from breath and wires. The ceiling above him was soft beige, sterile but not unfamiliar. He inhaled deeply, the sharp tug of a rib injury clenching in protest.He didn’t need to look to know he was in a recovery suite, cleaner than a hospital, quieter than a safehouse. And far too still.His body felt heavier than it should. Sedatives. Monitors tracked the beat of his heart, the rhythm of his lungs.He turned his head.Lucio wasn’t there.Neither was Seraphina.Panic tried to surface, but something stronger held it back. The same thing that had always steadied him when the world burned.Control.He shifted slightly, triggering the soft chime of a proximity sensor. A second later, the door opened, and Vincenzo entered, dressed in black, dark circles under his eyes. But relief crossed his face when he saw Lucien awake.“You’re back,” Vincenzo said, voice low but
The last thing Seraphina remembered was the weight of the detonator in her hand, the heat from Lucien’s blood on her chest, and the way Lucio looked at her, wide-eyed and silent, trusting her in the worst moment of their lives.She’d stood between them and the enemy.Then she pulled the trigger.Silence.And now, cold.Her eyes opened to dim, sterile light, the faint hum of ventilation, and a low ache across every inch of her body. Her shoulder throbbed. Her ribs screamed when she tried to shift. But she was alive.Alive.Which meant someone had a reason to keep her breathing.The room around her was too clean, too controlled. The walls were a dull matte gray. The bed beneath her was standard, thin mattress, single sheet. No visible windows. One door. One camera.Not a hospital.Not a military base.Something in between.She sat up slowly, ignoring the tug of pain. She’d lived through worse.But she’d never felt this kind of stillness before.Then came the knock.Soft. Sarcastic.And