The thirty-mile drive to the city was a buffer zone between worlds. In Mia's chaotic, sunlit apartment, I was the clumsy, apologetic brother. Here, in the steel-and-glass heart of the city, I was someone else. The heir to a legacy that had nothing to do with hotels and everything to do with teeth and territory.
I parked in the private lift and ascended directly to the executive level. The doors opened to a silent, carpeted lobby. Anya, my cousin, sat guard at the sleek reception desk, a vision of severe efficiency in a black pencil skirt and a white blouse so sharp it could draw blood. Her glasses glinted as she looked up from her monitor.
"You're late," she stated, her voice like chilled vodka. "The Chairman has been waiting. Also, the Q3 hospitality fund audits are still on your desk. Uncle won't be pleased if they're not finalized before the board meeting."
I offered her a lazy grin, the one I knew irritated her. "Good to see you too, Anya. You look… punishing."
She didn't blink. "He's inside. Try not to track any of that… suburbia in with you."
Pushing through the heavy oak doors, I entered the inner sanctum. The office was vast, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The Chairman's throne—a massive leather chair—was occupied. By a three-year-old. Rosa, Anya's daughter, was solemnly stacking paperweights on the blotter, a tiny dictator in a frilly dress.
A smile tugged at my lips. "Hey, monster. Where's the big boss?"
Before she could gurgle a reply, a hand settled on my shoulder. Not a tap. A weight. Familiar, grounding, and capable of immense pressure.
I turned.
Samuel Valkan stood there, my father. To the outside world, he was a ruggedly handsome, self-made magnate in his late fifties, his silver-streaked hair and smile capable of disarming investors and socialites alike. Mia wasn't wrong as a kid; he had that classic, dangerous charm.
But I saw past the smile. I saw the sharpness in his hazel eyes, the subtle tension in his frame that never fully left, the faint scar along his jawline that no business deal could explain. This was the man who taught me how to shift my bones before I learned to drive, who explained the scent profiles of different supernatural threats over breakfast. The kind soul who'd read us bedtime stories, and the furious tempest known as "Angry Samuel," a force even our kind approached with caution.
"Jeremy," he said, his voice a warm rumble. The smile was genuine, but his eyes were scanning, assessing. "You're in one piece. Good. How is your sister? Settled? And Vivian…" His tone softened imperceptibly. "She is well? Her father would have my hide if a single hair on her head was troubled under our watch."
He asked about Vivian with a specific care. She wasn't just Mia's friend; she was the daughter of his only human friend, a man he'd sworn to protect. A sacred debt in a world built on them.
"They're both fine," I reported, slipping into the crisp efficiency he expected here. "Mia's declared her independence permanent. Says the countryside air is less… stifling." I let the implication hang. "Vivian is settled in. No issues."
He nodded, satisfied for now. His attention shifted to the little queen at his desk. "The reports for your mother are prepared. Deliver them to her at the foundation office. Take Rosa with you—drop her home to Anya's. It will give you practice."
I almost laughed. Practice? For what? Babysitting? Or for the protector role that was my birthright?
"Then," he continued, his gaze turning strategic, "be back here at five. The Sterling-Klein acquisition party. We need to show face, solidify the human front." He paused. "Invite Vivian."
That stopped me. "Invite her? To a corporate party?"
"It is time she re-enters the society her father belonged to," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "And it will please Mia to have her friend there. Tell Mia she is not to wear those baggy denim abominations. Tell Vivian her task is to dress your sister like the Valkan she is. Consider it… my thanks to her for keeping Mia company in her exile."
A complex web of orders. Deliver papers. Babysit. Play chauffeur. Be a social liaison. All part of the seamless dance between our two lives: the public empire and the private clan.
"Understood," I said.
He clapped my shoulder once, the gesture both affectionate and dismissive. "Good. Now, go. The ledgers won't audit themselves."
Exiting the office, I nodded to Anya, who was already on the phone, orchestrating some part of the empire. The image of Mia's horrified face at the decree of formalwear almost made me smirk. But beneath that, a quieter, more persistent thought buzzed.
Invite Vivian.
The girl with the scream that could shatter glass and the confused, brave eyes from this morning. The girl who, in another world of fire and ash, had looked at the wolf with something other than fear. I pushed the dream fragment away—it was just a dream, a weird echo of stress.
But my father's order wasn't. It was a thread, pulling her gently but firmly into our orbit. Into my orbit.
I scooped up a chattering Rosa, her small hands immediately tangling in my hair. "Alright, monster," I murmured, heading for the lift. "Let's go see Aunt Val. And then," I thought, the cityscape blurring as the descent began, "I have an invitation to deliver."
The mundane tasks of the afternoon—the drive to my mother's charitable foundation, the smile she gave while taking Rosa, the predictable traffic—all felt like the calm before an unseen storm. A party. A forced social gathering. The most dangerous kind of hunt, where the predators wore suits and the stakes were hidden behind champagne flutes and stock portfolios.
And Vivian would be there, a glimpse of something real amidst all the pretending. I wasn't sure if that made the prospect better or infinitely more complicated.
I picked up Mia and Vivian, who kept Rosa company as I drove to the foundation office. The afternoon sun was a pale gold, and Vivian's quiet presence in the backseat felt different today—more observant, like she was studying the world through a slightly altered lens.
"Uncle Jeremy talks boring!" Rosa announced, clinging to Vivian's leg the moment we stopped.
"See? Betrayed by a three-year-old," I said, nodding gravely.
Mia squinted at me, then at the car. "Why do you have Rosa? And why are you dressed like you're going to a funeral for a banker?"
"It's called a suit, Mia. Sometimes adults wear them," I said, unlocking the doors. "Get in. We're going to see Mom."
The drive to the Valkan Family Foundation was a study in contrasts. Rosa chattered non-stop to a patient Vivian about clouds shaped like dragons. Mia grilled me from the passenger seat.
"What did Dad want?"
"Reports."
"What else?"
"To check on you."
"Liar. You have your 'lying' voice on."
"I don't have a lying voice."
"You do. It's your 'I'm Jeremy and I'm following orders' voice. It's flat and annoying."
In the rearview, I saw Vivian's lips twitch. She was listening, absorbing everything.
"There's a party," I finally admitted, cutting off Mia's next interrogation. "The Sterling-Klein thing. Tonight. At the Grand Lumina."
Mia groaned. "No. No way. Those things are a nightmare of small talk and shrimp cocktails."
"Attendance is mandatory. My orders, and now yours." I paused. "And you're to invite Vivian."
Silence. Then two voices at once.
Mia: "What?"
Vivian, quieter: "Me?"
"Dad's idea. Says it's time you re-entered the social orbit your father belonged to." I kept my eyes on the road, feeling the weight of Vivian's gaze. "Consider it a welcome back."
Before either could respond, I pulled into the foundation's driveway. My mother, Vallarie Valkan, met us at the entrance—a vision of elegant authority. Her embrace with Vivian was warm, lingering.
"Vivian, darling. Look at you," she said, her eyes softening. "Thank you for looking after our hurricane."
"It's mutual, Mrs. Valkan," Vivian replied.
"Val, please. Now," Mom said, turning to Mia with a strategic glint. "I've been briefed. The Chairman has declared war on denim. We have three hours. My tailor is on standby. Vivian, you're my tie-breaker. Jeremy, begone."
Mia looked trapped. "This is a conspiracy."
I leaned in, voice low. "Remember. For the Clan. Appearances are armor."
She scowled but nodded. The rebel conceded to the daughter.
It was then Mom added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and Vivian—your parents will be there tonight, of course. Henry and Clara RSVP'd weeks ago. They're so looking forward to seeing you in this setting again."
The reaction was instant.
Vivian didn't just gasp. She let out a short, sharp, utterly genuine shriek of horror. "What? No. No, they can't be. They'll—they'll do the thing. In public."
Mia's frustration vanished, replaced by gleeful recognition. "Oh my god. The thing. The cute thing."
"What thing?" I asked, intrigued.
Vivian buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled. "They get… cute. It's unbearable. My dad will try to show people baby pictures from his phone. My mom will tell the 'Vivi's first ballet recital' story—complete with sound effects—to anyone who stands still for more than ten seconds. They're professionally, diabolically cringe."
Mom laughed, a rich, warm sound. "They adore you, dear. It's charming."
"It's a war crime in a cocktail dress," Vivian mumbled, peeking through her fingers.
I couldn't help but smirk. The girl who faced down an unknown intruder in the dark was brought to her knees by the prospect of parental affection. It was… unexpectedly humanizing.
"Consider it part of your social reintegration," I said, my tone drier than intended. "A trial by cute."
Vivian dropped her hands, fixing me with a look of pure, desperate betrayal. "You're enjoying this."
"A little," I admitted. "It's a good reminder that everyone has their own version of a battlefield."
Her eyes held mine for a second too long, and in them, I saw a flicker of something—not just embarrassment, but a sharp, assessing intelligence. As if she was wondering what my battlefield looked like. The moment broke when Rosa tugged on her sleeve to ask about dragons again.
"Right," Mom said, shepherding the girls inside. "The cringe parents are a problem for later. Right now, we have a tomboy to transform. Jeremy, five o'clock. Don't be late."
As I walked back to the car, the quiet felt charged. The party had just gained a new layer: not just corporate maneuvering and clan duty, but the raw, awkward humanity of Vivian's family—a family my father was sworn to protect. Bringing her into our world meant intersecting with hers, publicly