Sera's Pov:
There's a moment—just one, where the game forgets it's a game.
When eye contact becomes something else.
When silence becomes a dare.
When the predator realizes the prey is watching just as closely.
Lucien Drakos doesn't blink.
Doesn't smirk.
Doesn't do what every other man in this room would do—consume me with his eyes like I'm already his.
Instead, he studies me. Not like an object. Like a question.
My spine stays straight as he walks past the bar's marble curve, barely brushing shoulders with anyone. The crowd folds around him, parting without complaint. There are no introductions. No handshakes. Only the hush of awareness.
Carter's voice echoes in my memory: "He'll either ignore you or devour you. There's no middle ground with a man like that."
I turn my body ever so slightly toward him.
Invitation without invitation. Subtle. Controlled.
My fingers trail the stem of my glass, leaving a smudge of red where my lips have been. I don't look at him again.
I wait.
Because that's the trick. Seduction isn't about showing interest. It's about offering the chance to earn yours.
Ten seconds pass. Twenty. A minute.
And then I feel it. The presence. Closer now.
The sound of his voice is low and exact when it comes—not over my shoulder, not in my ear, but beside me, like he's claiming neutral ground between us.
"You don't belong here."
No greeting. No name exchanges. Just 4 words.
My pulse flickers, but I don't let it show. I lift my gaze to him slowly, meeting his stare.
"I could say the same to you," I reply, letting just the hint of a smile tilt the corner of my mouth.
His jaw tightens imperceptibly, like he's either amused or irritated. I can't tell which. Good.
Lucien Drakos is tall in the way that steals space. Still. Controlled. Like a creature used to waiting for movement before striking. His features are sculpted, but sharp—Greek lineage, sunburned money. His eyes are a shade too intelligent, too still.
"You're not part of their world," he says.
"You are?" I counter. "You didn't even say hello."
"I don't believe in wasting words," he says.
I sip my drink, tasting the sharpness of the wine. "A man of few and calculated phrases. How refreshing."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval.
"Who sent you?" he asks.
The air tightens.
I tilt my head. "I wasn't aware I needed permission to exist."
"You're not here to drink. You're watching. Measuring. You came in calculated, chose your dress for effect, made eye contact with the wrong man first to establish control… and now you're deflecting. Well trained."
It takes everything in me not to react.
Not to show the split-second thrill that runs like a current under my skin.
He knows.
Not everything. Not the real reason I'm here. Not who I work for. Not yet. But enough to know I'm not just another girl sipping champagne and waiting to be seen.
"And yet," I say, turning fully toward him, "you're still talking to me."
Lucien steps closer. The distance between us narrows into something dangerous. His cologne is sharp, like bergamot and heat, threaded with something darker I can't name. Power doesn't just hang off him—it coils, controlled and caged.
"I'm not most men," he says quietly. "I don't chase. I don't play. And I never lose."
I smile again. "Sounds exhausting."
His eyes drop to my mouth. "It's not. When you control the board, there's no need to run."
The words are calm, but the tension is not. It stretches between us like the string of a bow pulled too tight.
"Vivienne" I said. "You are?"
"Lucien" He replied.
Before I can speak again, a ripple passes through the room. An announcement is made. Some ridiculous art acquisition is being unveiled, and suddenly the energy shifts as people crowd toward the east wing.
Lucien doesn't follow the herd.
He leans in, voice soft but resolute. "If you're going to play a role, Seraphina Vale… don't forget who's writing the script."
I freeze.
He used my name. My real one.
No one here knows it.
I feel the heat rush to my chest—controlled panic, sharp and sudden. My mind spins. How?
He disappears into the crowd before I can recover, leaving the scent of his presence like a ghost at my neck.
I stand frozen, pulse thudding. He saw through me in minutes. He knew my name. My role. My tactic.
He turned the game.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
**********
The Brief:
"Seraphina Vale".
He never says my name when we're not alone and on serious business.
Carter Shaw is the kind of man who turns silence into a tool. It's how he builds power—letting the pause stretch just long enough to make you question your footing. In rooms like this, where the walls are matte black and the air hums with tension, words feel expensive.
I wait.
He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching me like I'm another piece in his private collection.
Finally, he speaks.
"Tonight's a test."
I don't react. That's the point. He wants to provoke, to measure how much I can mask. I've learned to stay still under pressure—to hold his gaze like it means nothing, even when it means everything.
He nods once, approving. "The target's connected to a brokerage firm out of Zürich. Shell corporations, real estate laundering. The usual. But this one… this one's bigger."
"How big?" I ask, voice flat.
He slides a file across the glass desk. No name on the folder. Just a symbol—three slashed lines, like claws drawn across paper.
"Big enough that our partners want eyes inside. You're to observe, flirt, gain access. Extract what you can. Be subtle."
I open the file.
The man in the photo is older. Greying at the temples. A permanent tan from too many yacht summers. Married. Two kids in boarding school. Another woman in his penthouse. Textbook. He's just the opening move.
"His name?" I ask.
"Damon Keller. But he's not the one I'm talking about."
I look up sharply. "Then who is?"
Carter doesn't answer immediately. He stands, walks toward the window that overlooks the high-rises of Melbourne's financial district. It's dusk. The skyline burns in gold and shadow.
"There's another guest tonight," he says. "Not confirmed, but rumored."
My fingers tighten slightly on the folder. "Name?"
He turns. "Lucien Drakos."
The name hits like a tremor beneath my skin.
I've heard of him, of course. Everyone has. The shipping heir with syndicate whispers and ice in his veins. Private. Untouchable. Dangerous. The kind of man no woman touches without consequence. And definitely not someone I've ever been assigned to.
I school my expression. "If it's only a rumor…"
"It's not," Carter interrupts. "We've had eyes on his movements. He's back in Australia. Low profile. Which means he's planning something."
A beat of silence.
"Do you want me to engage?"
Carter gives me that look—the one that says you already know the answer.
"You're not there to chase him. But if he takes the bait… don't flinch."
My throat tightens, but I nod.
Carter walks past me, slow and deliberate. "He's not like the others. You don't play chess with a man like Lucien. You are the chessboard. Everything about you—your look, timing, silences, must be flawless. He'll know within thirty seconds if you're false."
"Then I won't give him thirty," I murmur.
That earns me a flicker of a smile.
He stops behind me, voice low. "You're the best I've trained. But remember the rules. No attachments. No mistakes. And no improvising."
I turn my head slightly. "You're worried."
"I'm cautious," he says. "Which is why I chose you."
He walks away again, but not before I hear it—the thing he only says when the room is sealed, when we're not Carter Shaw the art investor, and Seraphina Vale, orphaned girl and gallery intern. When we're just two ghosts in a machine.
"Come home clean, Seraphina."
I close the file.
"I always do."