Elena's POV
The Obsidian Tower did not just sit in the center of the city; it loomed over it like a dark god carved from shadow and glass. As the heavy doors of the ballroom swung open, the scent of the evening hit me like a physical weight. It was a mixture of expensive lilies, aged scotch, and the metallic tang of unbridled power. This was the annual Masquerade Gala, the one night a year where the monsters of the corporate world wore masks that finally matched their souls.
I stepped onto the polished marble floor, my heels clicking with a rhythm that felt far too much like a countdown. Click. Click. Click. Every step was taking me further away from my old life and deeper into the mouth of the beast. My dress, a deep midnight blue that shimmered like a bruised sky, felt like armor. It was backless, draped low to show off the skin I had spent years caring for, all to serve as a distraction. The lace mask over my eyes was tight, the delicate patterns pressing into my skin, reminding me that tonight, Elena Sterling did not exist. Tonight, I was just a ghost in the machine.
"Control your breathing, Elena," Jax's voice crackled in my ear. It was faint, hidden behind the music of a live string quartet playing something hauntingly classical. "Your heart rate is spiking. If the biometric scanners in the hallway pick up your stress levels, security will be on you before you even see him."
I took a slow, measured breath, forcing my lungs to expand against the tight silk of my bodice. "I'm fine, Jax," I whispered, my voice barely a breath. I reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, my fingers grazing the cold crystal. I didn't drink it. I needed my mind sharp, like a razor. "Tell me where he is."
"North corner. The high-stakes baccarat table," Jax replied. I could hear the rapid clicking of his keyboard in the background. "He's been there for twenty minutes. He's already cleared out three CEOs and a venture capitalist. He's in a foul mood, Elena. The 'Beast' is restless tonight."
I turned my head slowly, scanning the sea of tuxedos and gowns. The ballroom was a dizzying swirl of gold and black. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals dripping like frozen tears. And then, I saw him.
Alaric Thorne sat at a table carved from a single block of obsidian. He was surrounded by men who were powerful in their own right, yet they looked like children sitting next to him. He was dressed in a black-on-black tuxedo that seemed to absorb the light around him. He didn't lean back in his chair like the others; he sat with a terrifying, predatory stillness. His hands, large and scarred across the knuckles, rested flat on the green felt of the table.
Even from across the room, I could feel the gravity he pulled. He was the man who had signed the order to liquidate my father's company. He was the man who had sat in a courtroom and watched with cold, bored eyes as my family's legacy was stripped away until there was nothing left but debt and a hospital bed.
"He's beautiful," I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them. It was a hateful kind of beauty. He looked like something ancient and dangerous that had been forced into a modern suit. His hair was thick and dark, falling over a forehead that was currently creased in a frown.
"He's a predator," Jax corrected me sharply. "Don't forget why we're here. You need that biometric key-card. It's clipped to the inside of his jacket. Without it, we can't get into the server room in the basement. We have a forty-minute window before the guard rotation changes."
I set my champagne glass down on a nearby pedestal. My palms were sweating. I wiped them discreetly against the silk of my skirt. I had rehearsed this a thousand times in my head. I wasn't just a girl looking for a husband; I was a soldier on a suicide mission.
I began to move. I didn't walk straight toward him—that would be too obvious. Instead, I circled the room, pretending to admire the art on the walls. I passed a group of socialites gossiping about the latest scandal, their voices high and shrill. I passed a senator laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn't funny. The air felt thinner the closer I got to Alaric's table.
I watched him as I moved. He hadn't looked up once. He was focused on the cards, his expression unreadable. But as I stepped within ten feet of him, his head snapped up.
It wasn't a normal movement. It was fast, like a wolf catching a scent in the wind. His eyes, a piercing, unnatural amber, locked onto mine. For a second, the entire room went silent. The music faded, the voices died away, and there was nothing but the heat of his gaze. It felt as if he were looking straight through my mask, straight through my skin, and reading the secrets written on my bones.
"He saw me," I breathed into the microphone.
"Stay calm," Jax hissed. "He sees everyone. You're just another guest. Execute the spill. Now."
I moved forward, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it hurt. I reached for another glass of wine from a table near the baccarat area—a deep, staining red. I timed my steps perfectly. A waiter was coming from the left, a guest was moving from the right. I created a bottleneck.
I "tripped" on the hem of my long gown. It was a practiced fall, graceful but convincing. I felt the air rush past me as I stumbled forward, directly into the space where Alaric Thorne had just stood up from his chair.
Impact.
It was like hitting a wall of warm, solid stone. I felt his hands catch my upper arms, his grip like iron. The red wine left my glass in a slow-motion arc, splashing across the pristine white of his dress shirt, soaking into the fabric and spreading like a blooming wound.
"Oh!" I gasped, my voice pitching high with feigned shock. I looked up, and the world tilted.
Close up, the scars on his knuckles were more prominent. He smelled of sandalwood, rain, and something primal that made my skin tingle. His eyes were even more intense now, the amber swirling with a dark, golden fire. He didn't let go of my arms. If anything, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into my muscles.
"I... I am so sorry," I stammered, my hands reaching out to touch his chest, pretending to wipe at the wine but actually feeling for the shape of the key-card beneath his lapel. "I'm so clumsy. The floor, it was slippery..."
"You," Alaric said. His voice was a low, vibrating growl that I felt in the soles of my feet. He didn't look at his ruined shirt. He didn't look at the crowd that was now whispering and pointing. He only looked at me. "I smelled you before you even entered the room."
My blood ran cold. "I... I don't understand."
"Rain and steel," he whispered, leaning down so his lips were inches from my ear. His breath was hot, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold air of the ballroom. "That is what you smell like. Why are you following me, little ghost?"
My fingers froze against his chest. I could feel the hard, steady thud of his heart beneath my palm. It was slow and heavy. Thump. Thump. Thump. He wasn't scared. He wasn't annoyed. He was... curious.
"I'm not following anyone," I lied, my voice trembling. "I was just looking for the balcony. I need some air."
Alaric pulled back just enough to look into my eyes again. A small, dark smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a look that was more of a threat than a gesture of kindness.
"The air in here is foul," he agreed. "But the balcony is too public for what I have in mind."
He turned his head toward his head of security, who was already stepping forward. "Marcus, cancel my meetings for the rest of the night. And find out who invited this 'clumsy' creature to my party."
Before I could protest, before I could even find the key-card, Alaric's hand moved from my arm to the small of my back. He steered me toward the private elevators with a force that left no room for argument.
"Jax," I whispered, hoping the mic would pick it up. "He's taking me to the penthouse. The plan is changing."
There was no answer. Only static. I was alone with the Beast.