Café – Soho, London – Early February 1972
The café, cloaked in the quiet civility of lace curtains and walnut furnishings, wasn't what it seemed. To the common man, it was merely an upper-class hideaway where the smell of roasted beans mingled with morning chatter. But beneath the chandeliers and beside the burnished brass espresso machine, whispered revolutions stirred.
At a corner table by the window, Oliver Donovan sat with a half-folded broadsheet, one hand lazily swirling a cup of black coffee, the other turning a page of The Guardian. At just twenty-eight, the man wore his reputation like his bespoke charcoal suit—crisp, tailored, and lined with subtext. His golden hair caught the faint February light, and his icy blue eyes scanned the headlines, though his thoughts were miles away.
The clink of polished heels against oak flooring drew his attention—deliberate, poised.
She moved like a phantom with purpose.
A woman, raven-haired, dressed in an elegant coat with the collar upturned, slid into the seat beside him without invitation. The scent of lavender and smoke wafted subtly from her figure as she struck a match and lit a cigarillo with graceful precision. Then, without even glancing at the menu, she signaled for a coffee.
Selena Rockwood, in the flesh—Petunia's first ever clone, molded in the image of her past life: striking high cheekbones, dark almond-shaped eyes with a natural sharpness, and lips curled ever so slightly, as if forever mid-secret.
Oliver raised an amused brow.
> "Well then, love, to what do I owe the company of such a captivating vision? Tell me I've wandered into one of those dreams where strange women fall into my lap, unannounced and smouldering."
Selena turned toward him with a slow, disarming smile. Her voice was velvet—measured, smoky, distinctly upper-crust.
> "I imagine you say that to most women who know their way around a silk coat and a good pair of heels."
The flirt hung briefly in the air. She leaned back, casually placing her cigarillo on the ashtray and extending a hand, not so much as a greeting—but a test.
He took it, brushing his lips against the back of her glove, his grin half-amused, half-curious.
> "Oliver Donovan. You've heard of me then."
> "Naturally," she replied, eyes never leaving his, "Selena Rockwood. A pleasure."
The name sent a ripple through Oliver's expression—subtle, but not missed by her. He registered it. Her presence wasn't coincidental, and he knew it. Yet, he smiled anyway, the way foxes do when cornered.
The waiter arrived, dropping off her espresso. Selena offered a quiet thank-you and took a sip, eyes flicking over the rim of the cup to watch him watching her.
> "If this is a business call, I might ask you to come back during working hours," Oliver said lightly, folding his newspaper and resting his elbow on the table. "As you can see, I'm here to relax—at least for the next ten minutes."
Selena chuckled softly.
> "Then consider this an introduction, Mr. Donovan, not a pitch. But I'll be frank—I came here to invest."
Oliver arched a brow, the humour in his gaze sharpening.
> "Is that so? And how much are we talkin' about?"
Selena tilted her head.
> "Enough to ensure Imperial is no longer confined to the shadows of Britain's literary scene. I want your books in every home, whispered name or not. From Cornwall to the Highlands... and maybe a few embassies in between."
He leaned forward, fingers steepled.
> "And why would a wealthy lady like yourself want to sink funds into a scandalous little publishing house that walks the line between criminal offence and artistic freedom?"
Selena gave him that enigmatic smile again.
> "Because scandal, Mr. Donovan, sells. And because I believe in the power of dissenting voices. Imperial has teeth. It simply needs a longer leash."
Oliver laughed, running a hand through his blond hair, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes.
> "That's either the most seductive threat or the most flattering offer I've had this week."
> "You'll find I'm fond of blending the two," she quipped, reaching into her polished bag. From it, she slid a stack of neatly bound pages across the table. "Something for you to consider. A manuscript. Raw, but—promising."
Oliver lifted the papers, reading the title aloud:
> "'The Hunger Games.' Bloody hell, that's a strong name."
He flipped a few pages, scanning the crisp prose and dark premise.
> "Author?"
> "Lady T," Selena answered simply. "A ghost of a writer, one might say. She prefers anonymity. Her... works are considered rather inflammatory."
> "And are you Lady T?" he asked with a smirk.
> "No. I'm simply the bridge between what's written and what's read."
He leaned back, pages in hand, curiosity tugging at his features.
> "Does the deal hinge on me publishin' it?"
> "Not at all. I expect your honest opinion," she said, voice cooling slightly. "But if it means anything—I chose Imperial because of your... gumption. You're not afraid to print what others burn."
Oliver took that in silently, tapping the manuscript against the table.
> "We don't shy from danger, it's true. But you do realise if this book's as sharp as it looks, it might stir the nest. The ministry already has half a boot up my arse."
Selena stood smoothly, finishing her coffee. She smiled as she adjusted the strap of her bag.
> "Then it's good we've found each other, Mr. Donovan. You can handle the fire, and I'm rather good at lighting it."
As she turned to leave, Oliver called out with a grin.
> "I'll read it, Miss Rockwood. And if it's worth the trouble, we'll make waves. Hell—maybe even a storm."
She paused mid-step, casting a look over her shoulder, voice low and rich.
> "Just don't drown in it."
And with that, she vanished into the swirling bustle of Soho, the taste of revolution lingering in the air like cigar smoke and caffeine.
---
Back at her townhouse, Petunia—watching through the eyes of her Selena clone—withdrew her control and sat back in her velvet chair. The day had gone according to plan. The Avatar skill had proven its worth—so long as the clone willingly surrendered consciousness, Petunia could channel her mind through it, speak, act, live... as if she were in two places at once.
The final month had been nothing short of enlightening. She'd experimented relentlessly, refining how deep a clone's personality could go based on how many memories she sacrificed to create it. Too few, and the clone was flat and robotic. Too many, and she risked making a second "self."
And then… there was the [Coins Exchange] feature. A hidden prop she nearly overlooked, buried deep in the system's archive.
> [Coins Exchange]: Exchange system coins for scenario-specific currency at a 1:100 ratio. Fee: 5%.
"Well," she'd murmured with a smirk, "there's the money problem sorted."
And now, the pieces were falling into place. A house, a network, a clone with a public face and growing influence.
Petunia—no, Selena—was about to take the Muggle world by storm.
And the real one? She was only just getting started.
--------
Imperial Publishing – London Office – 10:32 AM
The brass plaque outside Imperial Publishing House might've dulled over the years, but the conviction it symbolised never had. Tucked into a quiet alley off Fleet Street, the building stood unassuming—brick walls aged with smog and history—but within, it harboured some of Britain's most radical literature, banned prose, and ideas that set Parliament fidgeting in their seats.
Inside, Oliver Donovan, the 28-year-old inheritor of both the company and its legacy, swept through the modest lobby with the confident stride of a man who'd just stumbled onto a treasure. Tall, lean, his blond hair artfully tousled and coat left open for flair, he adjusted his tie not for formality, but style. His polished shoes echoed across the marble-tiled floor as he passed his secretary, a woman whose disapproving stare did nothing to curb his casual smirk.
> "Debbie, a coffee to my office. And ring Johnson and Dan. Full meeting. Five minutes."
> "Yes, Mr. Donovan," she replied, lips pursed, already dialling.
Oliver didn't wait for confirmation. His office door swung open and then shut behind him, the thunk of wood sealing him inside with the pages that had seized him since dawn.
---
Five minutes later
Two men entered the office. Johnson, silver-haired and broad-shouldered, wore a brown cardigan with elbow patches and wire-framed spectacles. His manner was slow but certain. The other, Dan, shorter, lean, and perpetually unsmiling, carried a slim leather-bound notebook under his arm.
Both paused at the doorway.
Oliver was sat at his desk—an antique hunk of mahogany inherited from his father—head bent low over a hefty stack of papers. His coat was off, his sleeves rolled up. Not a single trace of his usual performative laziness.
> "Bloody hell," Dan muttered under his breath, "he's reading the bloody submissions himself."
> "Miracle of the year," Johnson whispered, though the concern in his tone was unmistakable.
They stood in awkward silence until Oliver finally looked up, his eyes gleaming—not with his usual flirtatious mischief, but genuine, sharp excitement.
> "This…" he said, tapping the manuscript as though it were a holy relic, "this isn't just good. This book is a storm in sheep's clothing."
Johnson raised a brow.
> "Mind telling us what it's about before you burst into poetry?"
Oliver grinned and stood, holding the cover page aloft as if displaying a fine bottle of wine.
> "It's called The Hunger Games. It's... raw, no question. Clearly written by someone new to the publishing world—but the structure, the themes, the pacing—it reads like a prophecy. It's brutal, elegant, deeply political without being preachy. And the imagery—by God, the imagery."
Dan opened his notebook wordlessly, jotting.
> "So it needs polishing, then?"
> "A touch," Oliver admitted. "But not too much. We refine it, we lose the edge. Johnson, I want you to take a copy and mark any grammatical issues or inconsistencies, though I doubt you'll find much. And Dan,"—he turned with a flicker of that old fox grin—"I need a marketing strategy for both our public readers and our… less visible patrons."
Dan, unfazed, nodded.
> "Black market angle or not, I'll build something solid by end of week. Depending on how controversial we're talking."
Oliver poured himself a splash of whisky into a teacup. At 9:45 a.m.
> "Let's just say it's got enough bite to be banned in three countries by the time we hit the presses."
Johnson sighed heavily, rubbing his temples.
> "You're putting the company's neck on the line again."
> "It's what we do, uncle."
That word—uncle—always softened Johnson's glare, but only slightly.
> "What's this I hear about a new investor? A 'whale'? You're not selling our mission for a bag of coins, are you?"
Oliver chuckled, swirling the whisky like a man far too pleased with himself.
> "No, nothing like that. Miss Rockwood—Selena—is sharp, composed, charming... dangerously so. She's offered capital. A lot of it."
> "And you're sure she's not a plant from the Far Right?" Johnson pressed, his gaze narrowing. "Your father didn't build this house just to have it bought out from under us by wolves in perfume."
Oliver set his cup down gently and leaned forward, his voice lowering.
> "No Right-wing operative could ever hand me a book like this. Trust me, Uncle. You'll understand when you read it."
There was a beat of silence. Johnson glanced down at the manuscript Oliver handed him.
> "Alright. I'll read it tonight. I'll be back tomorrow with my review. But—" he raised a finger, "—the decision to publish isn't tied to this 'investment,' right? We're not turning into someone else's puppet."
Oliver scoffed, placing a hand on his heart dramatically.
> "Have I ever compromised the soul of this place for anything less than artistic brilliance?"
Johnson and Dan stared.
> "Don't answer that," Oliver muttered with a grin, then waved them both toward the door.
> "Off with you. I've got another read-through to do. Can't let something this sharp slip through the cracks. Not on my watch."
As they stepped out, Johnson shook his head.
> "He's in love again."
> "With a manuscript or the woman?" Dan asked, deadpan.
> "Does it matter?" Johnson sighed. "Both are probably trouble."
The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving Oliver alone with the story—and the storm it would soon unleash.
---
The chandeliers above glistened like scattered stars, flickering soft candlelight across the marbled ballroom. Warm golds and soft creams stretched along the high-vaulted ceilings, and a quiet orchestra hummed somewhere unseen, filling the air with an elegant melody that swayed between seduction and serenity. The kind of music that wasn't heard but felt — vibrating through the spine, tickling the ribs, syncing with the beat of one's heart.
And in the centre of it all, Oliver Donovan stood with her.
Selena.
His hand rested against her back, just above the dip of her waist, where silk gave way to the curve of her spine. Her evening gown — midnight-black velvet — hugged her figure with whispering grace. It flowed like liquid shadow behind her as he spun her in his arms, and when she returned, her hand found his chest, her fingers curling softly over his heartbeat.
Her dark hair was swept to one side in old Hollywood fashion, the ends brushing against his hand as she danced. She smelled of jasmine and smoke, like something both beautiful and dangerous. Her lips — rich, full, wicked — were curled in the ghost of a smile that dared him to lean closer.
But it was her eyes that did him in. Deep-set and dark, they locked with his not in coyness, but confidence — like a woman who had already seen his soul and decided it was worth indulging.
Time didn't exist here. There were no other dancers, no onlookers — just the two of them spinning in the dreamlike hush of an empty palace. The moment stretched, elastic, like it didn't want to end.
Selena leaned in, her lips grazing his ear, her voice like silk draped in shadows.
> "Careful, Mr Donovan. I bite."
Oliver smirked, bold and devilish.
> "I hope you do."
She laughed, low and velvety — not girlish, but womanly, as if she knew the effect she had on him and delighted in it.
One moment, they were dancing.
The next, he was in a private room, dimly lit by a fireplace crackling in a low hearth. She stood by the mantel, a glass of red wine untouched in her hand, eyes watching him beneath thick lashes.
And then he was kissing her.
It wasn't rushed — no, it was measured, like a symphony reaching its climax. His hands held her face, thumbs brushing against the bone of her cheeks. Her lips were soft and unyielding at once, slow and knowing, like she was the one in control and simply letting him believe he was leading. The kind of kiss that said: I know exactly who I am... do you?
She tasted like danger disguised as sweetness. Her fingers curled into his collar, pulling him closer, and for a moment — a glorious, consuming moment — Oliver felt complete. As if the aching silence in his life, the missing verse in his favourite song, had finally resolved itself in her arms.
He didn't want to leave. He didn't need anything else. Not Imperial. Not legacy. Not even air.
And then—
---
GASP.
Oliver shot up in bed, heart hammering like a drumline in his chest. Sweat clung to his brow despite the early morning chill creeping through his windows.
The silence was absolute. No ballroom. No music. No velvet dress or smoky perfume. Just the distant sound of London buses and the faint creak of wood beneath his penthouse floor.
He blinked, dazed, and then — as the images lingered like perfume in the air — let out a hoarse laugh.
> "Oh, bloody hell. I can't believe…"
He rubbed his face, still warm from the memory of her touch.
> "I just had a wet dream... about a woman I saw once?"
He threw himself back on the bed with an arm draped over his eyes, groaning and laughing at the same time.
> "Me? Oliver Donovan? Patron Saint of Charm and Composure?" He scoffed. "I'm losing it."
But as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, a wicked grin tugged at his lips.
His heart hadn't stopped racing.
Her eyes still haunted him.
And somewhere, deep down, Oliver Donovan realised this wasn't just about charm or attraction.
---------
Imperial Publishing House – Morning of the Meeting
The sky outside Imperial was cast in a muted grey, a typical London morning smeared with clouds and drizzle, yet inside Oliver Donovan's office, the air was anything but dull. The scent of roasted coffee and fresh ink lingered faintly, mingling with the sharp smell of rain-damp fabric.
The door creaked open. In strode Johnson, his expression stern, his posture more rigid than usual, and in his hand was the now well-handled manuscript of The Hunger Games. The cover page had faint smudges from repeated touches, and the corners had begun to curl slightly — the mark of a book read too intently to be put down.
Without preamble, Johnson placed the manuscript on Oliver's desk with a deliberate thump.
> "This... this book," he began, his voice tinged with something between awe and wariness. "It's a bloody wild card, Oliver. Raw. Fearless. A critique masked in fiction — and don't get me started on that ending. I won't be surprised if the Ministry has it banned within a month of release."
Oliver, perched on the edge of his sleek leather chair with one leg crossed over the other, lazily set his coffee cup down on its saucer. His eyes, however, were alert — sharp with the glint of anticipation.
> "Well," he said with a faint smirk, "that's why they come to us, isn't it? To Imperial. We publish what others wouldn't dare touch." He tapped the cover of the manuscript lightly with his fingers. "Controversy sells, Uncle. You know that better than anyone."
At that moment, the door cracked open again with a professional knock followed by Debbie, his ever-efficient secretary. Her heels clicked crisply against the polished floor as she entered, a slim manila file tucked under one arm. She handed it to Oliver with a tilt of her head.
> "Mr Donovan. The background check you requested," she said crisply, her tone efficient but laced with the curiosity of someone who knew this wasn't a routine request.
Oliver took the file with a raised eyebrow and flipped it open. What greeted him was a thin pile — unusually thin for someone allegedly wealthy and influential.
> "There's not much to see, actually," Debbie added, stepping back. "No school records, no residence registrations, no banking history before three months ago. It's as if—"
> "—As if she erased all traces of her past," Johnson finished grimly, narrowing his eyes as he crossed his arms. "Someone who can do a job this clean? That's not just careful. That's calculated. Professional."
He leaned over Oliver's desk slightly.
> "And if this 'investor' isn't the author herself — which I'm beginning to doubt — then why would she be so adamant about getting this book published? Why not have the mysterious 'Lady L' submit it directly?"
Debbie cleared her throat with the poise of someone who'd seen stranger things.
> "Well, you may get the chance to ask her that yourself. A man came in a moment ago — a solicitor, claims to be part of Selena Rockwood's legal team. He's requested a meeting on her behalf."
Oliver's chair creaked slightly as he sat upright.
> "Oh? A lawyer now? Is Selena — I mean, Mrs Rockwood — attending the meeting too?"
Debbie arched a brow in amusement at the not-so-subtle slip.
> "Yes. The meeting's at eleven o'clock sharp."
Oliver coughed, smoothing his tie and brushing nonexistent dust off his blazer. He wasn't vain — no more than the average man, anyway — but when it came to Selena Rockwood, he felt the need to look as poised as he was witty.
> "Excellent. Thank you, Debbie. Johnson." He waved a hand dismissively, though his expression betrayed the nervous anticipation bubbling beneath his casual tone. "You may both Alcantara leave now."
Johnson chuckled dryly, catching the subtle shift in Oliver's demeanour.
> "You're smitten, boy. Be careful — that one's a chess player, not a damsel."
Oliver didn't deny it. He merely flashed his trademark foxlike grin, eyes glinting with something between excitement and danger.
> "Well, Uncle... lucky for her, I play a mean game of chess."
As the door closed behind them, Oliver leaned back in his chair and stared at the thin file once more. Blank pages. No trail. A ghost in silk gloves.
And yet — she had walked into his world as if she owned it.
And now she was walking back in with a lawyer.
Whatever game Selena Rockwood was playing — he was in.
Fully.
Unapologetically.
And this time, it wasn't just for the publishing rights.
--------