Why did Adrian need a contracted girlfriend?
That question had haunted Lyra from the moment she stepped foot into the mansion—and now, sitting alone in the grand dressing chamber as two icy-faced maids adjusted the luxurious emerald dress on her body, the question burned hotter than ever.
Why her?
Why tonight?
Why a formal dinner… with only the two of them?
Surely, this wasn't what she thought it was.
The moment the dress was zipped up, even the maids paused. Their frozen expressions flickered—not into smiles, but into something close to reverence. A subtle nod. A quick glance. As if even they had to silently acknowledge what she'd become the moment the gown touched her skin.
She turned to the mirror slowly, and the girl looking back at her wasn't the same one who arrived here two days ago.
Her long dark hair was gently curled, cascading like ink over her shoulders. Her skin glowed like moonlight, smooth and almost too perfect. The emerald gown hugged her figure like liquid glass, embroidered with delicate silver threads shaped like vines and roses. The back dipped low, and the neckline was sculpted just enough to be breathtaking without being vulgar. Every emerald seemed real, shimmering with a green fire that pulsed when she moved.
A dress like this didn't just scream wealth. It whispered legacy.
And tonight, she wore it for a man who had never once looked at her like she was beautiful.
As the silent maids left the room, Lyra's chest tightened. There were too many unspoken things swirling inside her—questions that had no place to land.
What kind of dinner needed this kind of dress?
Why tonight?
Why now?
And what in the world was Adrian planning?
---
The dining hall felt like a scene from a royal painting.
The ceiling was carved with frescoes, angels and demons dancing between chandeliers dripping with diamond-like crystals. The table was longer than most people's homes, crafted from ebony wood with veins of gold running through it. Dozens of silver candles lined the center, their flames unmoving, as if they bowed to some unseen presence in the room.
The chairs were thrones—tall, gothic, intimidating.
And at the far end of the table, he sat.
Adrian Blackthorn.
Dressed in full black.
His suit was stitched with faint patterns that shimmered like constellations when the candlelight kissed them. A silver chain traced across his chest like a signature only the wealthy could afford. His hair was perfectly styled, sharp as night itself. His jawline held no softness, and his cold silver eyes—those eyes—didn't even flicker when she entered the room.
He didn't move.
He didn't stand.
He didn't even blink.
He just watched. Or rather, didn't. As if she didn't matter. As if her existence in the room was nothing more than air brushing past stone.
And yet, the air was thick with tension.
His aura was unbearable. Perfect, cold, godlike.
Not an ounce of humanity lingered in his presence. His skin, pale and radiant, seemed to drink the shadows. The scent around him was faint but unforgettable—dark woods, crushed spices, and something unearthly. Something no perfume in the world could ever replicate.
He sat in stillness. Like a king. Like a demon.
Like something in between.
Lyra's heels clicked softly as she approached the table. Her heart thumped violently against her ribs. The dress felt tighter now. The air colder.
She waited for him to speak.
He didn't.
Instead, he gestured faintly with one hand, and the servants—those same vampire-like attendants with their silent grace and blank eyes—pulled out the chair across from him.
The table between them stretched like a sea. Gold-rimmed plates were stacked with perfection. Crystal glasses gleamed with dark wine. Flowers—not ordinary ones, but strange, exotic blooms Lyra couldn't name—sat in black vases that shimmered like obsidian.
Everything was so luxurious, it bordered on obscene.
She sat.
Still, he said nothing.
The servants began serving the courses, each more delicate and expensive than the last—swan-bone soup, crystal-sugar petals, velvet-roasted meat glazed with wine older than her grandparents.
But no conversation.
Adrian ate in silence, his expression unreadable. His gaze never lingered on her.
Not once.
Not even as she sat in a dress that could silence crowds. Not even when the candlelight danced along her skin like a lover's kiss.
Why?
Why was this man so unmoved?
Was it discipline? Disinterest?
Or something darker?
Lyra fidgeted with her fork, unable to take it anymore. "Why did you ask me to dinner tonight?"
No answer.
She leaned slightly forward, daring. "Is something supposed to happen?"
His gaze met hers then.
Briefly.
Cold. Direct. Empty of emotion.
"No," he replied simply.
Her throat dried. "Then… what is the purpose of this?"
He didn't flinch. He didn't even pause his knife. "Dinner."
Just that.
She stared at him, baffled. "You could've eaten alone."
"I often do," he said, slicing through his meal with eerie calmness.
"Then why—?"
"I wished not to, this evening."
The statement was final. It sounded like a closing door.
Lyra stared down at her plate, barely touched. None of this made sense. The food was fit for royalty, the decor fit for gods, and yet… she felt like a prisoner in a dress.
"Adrian…" she whispered.
He looked at her again—only briefly.
"I'll be leaving in a few days," he said, as if casually mentioning the weather.
Lyra's heart skipped. "Leaving?"
"No set return date."
She blinked. "But… I've only been here two days."
"And you'll remain here."
"Alone?" Her voice cracked slightly. "With… with them?" Her eyes flicked toward the doors where the eerie servants often stood, silent and ghostly.
His expression didn't change. "They won't harm you. As long as you follow the rules."
She clenched her hands beneath the table. "I want to speak to my family before you go."
"No," he said flatly.
Her head snapped up. "Why not?!"
"You signed the contract."
"I didn't know—"
"It was clear."
"I'm scared," she admitted, voice trembling.
He didn't care.
It was in his eyes. That cold, emotionless void.
The air between them turned suffocating.
And just as the tension began to twist into something unbearable, a voice sliced through the silence.
"Apologies for the interruption, Master Blackthorn."
It was Sebastian.
Lyra flinched.
He stood at the edge of the hall like a shadow made flesh, his sharp cheekbones catching the light just so. The man didn't look human. His dark, marbled eyes were void of warmth. His face, ageless and cruel. He wore a suit darker than Adrian's, and his aura pulsed like it was wrapped in secrets too heavy for words.
"What is it?" Adrian asked, not turning.
"Your guests have arrived."
Adrian rose from his chair without even glancing at Lyra.
"You are to remain in your room," he said as he passed her. "Until I say otherwise."
And just like that, he was gone.
Lyra stared after him, stunned.
What guests?
What was going on?
And then she saw them.
Or rather, felt them first.
A strange energy swept through the hall like a storm entering through a crack in the window.
Four figures entered the far doors.
Three men. One woman.
Not human.
They couldn't be.
The first was dressed entirely in white—his hair, eyes, skin, lashes, clothes. Everything shimmered like snow under sunlight. He looked ethereal, unreal. His face held a calm, inviting smile, but there was something ancient in his gaze.
The second, in contrast, was fire incarnate. Dressed in crimson from head to toe, his eyes burned with intensity. His red hair fell like molten silk around his face. He looked serious, focused, like a warrior who never took off his armor.
The third man was all blue—deep sapphire eyes, loose navy hair, a tailored blue coat that danced with magical patterns. He was laughing softly as he walked, hands in his pockets, exuding a charm that made the room feel brighter just by existing.
And the last—
The woman.
She was breathtaking.
Her beauty wasn't gentle. It was terrifying.
Her long silver-blonde hair reached her waist in waves. Her dress shimmered like molten gold, nearly sheer in places. Tattoos of serpents and vines traced along her pale arms and down her thighs. Her eyes—icy violet—could freeze an army. She moved like royalty, like danger, like sin wrapped in silk.
And her gaze?
Bossy. Cold. Wildly intelligent.
She didn't walk. She owned the room.
And Adrian?
His face darkened the moment he saw them.
What was this meeting?
Why were they here?
And what could possibly make even Adrian Blackthorn look that way?
---