PRESENT DAY
SEBASTIAN'S POV
The banquet hall hums with curated smiles and veiled ambition. Everyone's hunting for leverage behind champagne glasses and idle compliments.
I, however, wait for the woman who's haunted my thoughts for the past week.
I stand among four men and three women, all twice my age, pretending to care about their chatter. Only to avoid another of my mother's speeches on "charm and diplomacy."
Then I see her.
She enters, shrugging off her overcoat. A crisp white shirt tucked into a black ankle-length skirt.
No thick glasses tonight. Dusty rose shimmered on her lids, contour sculpting her jaw with quiet precision, crimson lips full and poised.
My lips twitch. So she knows how to soften her edges. Knows how to dress warmth around a mind like hers—to disarm without lowering her guard.
What I don't expect is Hugo Cardin—French film royalty, son of a major S. S.Studios shareholder—approaching her. Known for his flirtations, but with her? No kiss on the cheek. No touch. Just respectful distance.
She has connections. Impressive ones.
Louis Laurant. Now Hugo Cardin.
Soft piano notes drift through the room as she accepts a champagne glass from Hugo and drifts to the far side of the hall—directly opposite me.
Her eyes sweep the room with clinical elegance. Not greedy. Calculating.
And then—
She meets my gaze.
The first time she's looked at me. I've watched her all evening. And now, under that stare, something in my throat tightens. My grip around the whiskey glass hardens.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Almost as if she's challenging me.
Three minutes, fifty-four seconds.
That's how long the stare lasts. My pulse kicks harder with each one.
It only ends when Louis steps between us, drawing her attention. I glance away, suppressing a grin.
It's not like I haven't met bold women before. The high society ones are taught to spar with men in boardrooms and ballrooms alike. Polished smiles, sharp tongues.
But none have dared provoke me. Maybe because I'm worse than them. And no one crosses a Von Kleist.
She, however—
She isn't born into power.
She wears it like something earned the hard way.
I watch her follow Louis toward our group, posture straight, presence quiet but assured. She doesn't overshadow him—just walks in rhythm.
Louis introduces her with his usual charm. "Ladies and gentlemen, the sharpest mind in my department—Ayana Fernandes. She's why our last three films exceeded projections by thirty percent."
A woman in a Dior gown that could pay off a small-town mortgage arches a brow. "Indian? How interesting. What brings you to Berlin?"
Ayana smiles, easy and unfazed. "Cold hard cash."
They laugh. No grand monologue. No need to impress.
She plays this game well. Don't try to outshine; appear as harmless and honest as possible.
I sip my drink. Time to push.
"What do you think of Winter's Gaze, Ms. Fernandes?"
My tone is clipped. Deliberate.
She meets my eyes. Knows I'm testing her. No hesitation, no nerves.
"If the director remembers he's adapting a novel—not crafting a manifesto—it'll succeed. The fans want the story they love, not his ego."
The corner of my mouth threatens a grin. Sharp delivery. Controlled voice.
Laughter rises. Even the author of Winter's Gaze chuckles from the next table.
"Quite the critique for someone in marketing," I murmur, still neutral.
"Marketing's just seeing what people want—before they do," she replies. Her tone was light, yet precise. "And right now, they want faithfulness. Not a vanity project."
Louis beams beside her like a proud father. The author laughs again, saying something about having her as his editor or something.
"She's not for sale," Louis adds, tone suddenly sharp. Protective.
So. She's under his wing. Smart. She'll survive in a room full of wolves. She has chosen a good mentor with clear power in real life.
The party drifts on. Ayana follows Louis closely, speaking only when introduced. Her smile—a practiced mask. Warm, but detached. Watch too closely, and you'll see the calculation underneath.
The event dulls around me. The women attempting conversation blur into background noise. I'm too busy reading Ayana's lips from across the room.
"Oh yes, I'm from India. Just my parents and my brother—he has three sons."
"It gets hectic, but I owe it to my team to keep up."
"I got lucky. Let's see how far luck takes me."
"You have such refined taste. I'd love to learn from you if you'd let me."
After two hours of maneuvering through social ladders, she finally settles at a table overflowing with food.
For the first time, her shoulders lower.
Golden pendant lights kiss her sun-warmed skin. Her lashes flutter as she lifts a bite of steak.
She snatches a pastry from Louis's hand and replaces it with salad. He groans. She laughs—soft, unguarded.
I barely hear anything else told to me. All noise fades.
Then Hugo slides into the seat beside her. She teases him. He scoffs. Louis says something about women ignoring Hugo because of my cold expression.
And she agrees.
"Tell me about it. I almost cursed in front of him earlier."
My lips twitch. I knew she found me annoying.
Then—she turns. Our eyes meet again. Hers widen, and that tiny arch in her brow says more than words could.
She doesn't like being watched.
I smirk, raising my glass in a mock toast. She gasps and looks away, clearly irritated.
I close my eyes, a grin tugging at my mouth.
She's fascinating. A woman trying hard not to be noticed—
Not by men in power.
But by the ones she feels will become a hurdel on her way.
Ambitious, calculated, beautiful, manupilative, smart and detached, too detached.
No wonder Louis and Hugo keep her close.
She's not just intelligent. She's dangerous.
Fuck.
I'm already in deeper than I should be.
I put my glass down, excusing myself from the room without saying much. I need some clear air.
Stepping inside the balcony where noise fades, a cold, bitter wind kissed my skin, but I care less about cold now.
That girl... Anaya...
She is making my brain spiral. I thought I had gotten my innate desire to exploit things that don't work according to my calculation. However, here I am.
Struggling to keep my damn curiosity to test her fun and amusement.
"Oh, what is the star of tonight doing here?"
I didn't need to turn around to know to whom this annoying voice belonged.
"I saw you were having some eye contact contest with the girl following Louis Laurant," Markus says with a smirk, standing beside him close enough for me to smell the mixed rose and vanilla woman's perfume on him.
"How long did the eye contact last?" He asked, tilting his head to the side.
I look up at the horizon of Berlin, lights twinkling across the city. The silence of the city lights didn't match the chaos inside me.
"3 minutes 54 seconds,"
Those words rolled out of my tongue as if it's the most obvious thing. Markus's smugness dropped; he knows me. Enough to read my expression sometimes.
"You aren't getting more curious about her than you should, right?" He asks, serious and on his edge.
Curiosity.....
This is like a curse.
And curiosity in a woman who doesn't belong in my world.
It's like a death sentence.
But human beings are complicated, always drawn to danger and uncertainty.
"Don't worry. I know my limits." I say, confident and calm.
"You sure know, but be careful." His voice gets lower, "That girl doesn't belong in our world. Too much curiosity from you will ruin her life."
I let his words hang in the air, a smirk dancing at the corner of my lips, "Am I supposed to care?" I say, turning to him.
Markus frowns and mouths something under his breath but says nothing more.
I am Sebastian Von Kleist. Unless it's affecting my life and legacy, I don't care who dies or burns, who cries or gets destroyed.
And yet, when I step back into the room, my gaze finds her.
She's dancing — with a man in a black tailcoat. Crisp raven hair falls over his forehead, his jaw sharp, nose straight like something sculpted from Roman marble. He laughs at something she says, eyes fixed on her like she's a prize he's already claimed.
His hand rests on her waist — respectful, but just close enough to make my fingers twitch.
"You'll break the poor glass," Markus says, plucking it from my hand.I hadn't even realized,
I was gripping it that hard.