The Snake was still blinded.
Even after the Billionaire entered the room, a shadow that pulled all attention like a black hole in a starry sky, the Snake's gaze refused to shift. Their eyes remained pinned—spellbound—on her. Thalia Drakos.
She hadn't walked into the room. She had arrived, with the kind of quiet devastation that couldn't be taught or planned. No announcement, no theatrics. Just presence.
And it was lethal.
Thalia had, in under a minute, commanded the entire space like it was built around her. Men, women, skeptics, cynics, monsters, and fools alike—every soul in the room had stilled, caught in her orbit. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The air shifted around her like it, too, belonged to her.
The Snake swallowed hard.
It wasn't infatuation. It was worship.
Even the most confident women in the room—scarred, sharpened, untouchable—were now standing just a little straighter, smoothing invisible creases, recalibrating their posture like wild creatures assessing a newly arrived apex predator. And the men? Even worse. Or perhaps better. The way their eyes followed Thalia was both comical and crude. The kind of gaze that undressed and deified in equal measure.
The Snake almost laughed.
There it was—that unmistakable, biting urge to be territorial, possessive. Protective, maybe. Ridiculous. They didn't even know her. But it didn't matter. Because something about her had locked onto their instincts and ripped them clean out of the vault.
She moved with the grace of poetry. She looked like a secret only the gods knew. The Snake had read once that the ancient Greeks sculpted their gods so beautifully that even in marble they were seductive, powerful, terrible in their perfection.
They understood now.
Thalia Drakos didn't look like she belonged to this century. Or any. She looked like a dream that civilization had once tried to carve into stone and then forgotten how to replicate. She didn't even need to try. It was in her. The posture. The silences. The unapologetic, unbothered way she let her beauty echo without once attempting to soften it.
The Snake finally blinked and dared to glance around the room.
Everyone was watching her. Everyone.
The strongest men from the Serpents, Eagles, Sharks. The second-prettiest woman—leaning against the marble pillar in Bear-black leather. Every last one of them devouring Thalia with their eyes. And the Snake instantly knew—now would be the worst time to make a move. They weren't a fighter. Not like that. Those four? They were.
Let the predators pretend they could impress her.
The Snake, meanwhile, had something far more dangerous.
Access.
They were on her team.
A grin ghosted across their lips. Small. Controlled. Private.
While the rest of the room salivated and plotted, they would be beside her. Talking to her. Moving through the Trials with her. Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.
And perhaps, mercy.
Still, the thought was dangerous. They had to focus. There was money at stake. Twenty-five million pounds. Not a dream. Not a distraction. Not some myth wrapped in olive skin and moonlight eyes.
Even if that distraction was… her.
They inhaled, forced themselves to look away from Thalia—and up.
Right into the eyes of Lucien Vallois De Sévigné.
The Host.
The Billionaire.
And as they did, a chill slithered across the back of their neck, like stepping into the shadow of something ancient and foul. Lucien smiled, and something in that smile felt wrong—like glass underfoot in the dark.
"How do you feel?" the Billionaire asked the room, his voice smooth, velvet-laced, and cold as cathedral stone. "Happy with your teams?"
Before anyone could answer, one of the Eagles—tall, tan, smug in that effortless Mediterranean way—spoke. "It's a bit unfair that this Greek Goddess had to come in last, since there was only the Lions' key left, but… I suppose fate has its reasons." His eyes never left Thalia. They drank her in like she was wine and he was long past sober.
The Snake curled their tongue against their teeth to keep from laughing.
Thalia didn't even look at him. Didn't blink. Didn't acknowledge his words. Her eyes were fixed on the Billionaire, her face carved of something still and unreadable. If she'd heard the comment, she gave no sign of it.
Ice. Polished and perfect.
"Anyone else," the Billionaire said, "other than Mr. Alessandro Giordano, have anything to comment?"
The Snake side-eyed the Italian—Alessandro. They made a note of the name with mild annoyance. Then they stepped forward just enough to be seen, but not enough to beg for attention.
"I'm the happiest with my team," they said with a grin they didn't bother hiding.
A ripple of scoffs and exhaled disbelief broke through the room, and the Snake nearly laughed again. Good. Let them be irritated. Jealousy made people stupid. And stupid made them vulnerable.
"You've got the Greek Goddess in your team, of course you are," came a voice—deep, rough, and heavy with a Brazilian accent. One of the Sharks. Built like a statue. Pissed like a child denied candy.
"Just Thalia is fine," came her voice, calm and unbothered, still watching the Billionaire. "Calling me that feels a bit like blasphemy."
A soft snort from Alessandro. "You're Catholic, then?"
Thalia still didn't look at him.
"I believe in Jesus," she said simply. "I'd rather not box myself into a religion. I believe in belief." And then, without hesitation, she tilted her head just slightly toward Lucien. "So, Mr. Vallois De Sévigné, how will the Trials work?"
The room went still again.
And the Snake found themselves grinning for the third time.
Because, for all her beauty, it wasn't just the way she looked that silenced rooms.
It was the way she spoke.
Measured. Clean. Intentionally void of fear. A calm sea with monsters lurking just beneath.
Yes, the Snake thought, their pulse thudding a little harder.
They were going to enjoy this team.
If they survived it.
And with Thalia's question hanging in the air, the room fell into a stillness so thick it might as well have been stone.
All eyes turned—finally—to the billionaire.
He stood there in his crisp suit, perfectly tailored, his posture a little too straight to feel human, his grin a little too wide to be benign. Like a cat standing over a nest of birds, delighted by the squirming. "You are all here," he began, his voice a rich, effortless baritone with just a hint of Swiss-French precision, "to compete. With your lives on the line. For twenty-five million pounds."
A single breath rippled through the room—twenty-five million.
The Snake barely noticed themselves inhaling. Neither did anyone else.
"The trials," the Host continued, "will be divided into stages. The specifics of each stage—how many there are, what they entail—are classified, of course. But for now, you need only concern yourselves with Stage One."
He spread his arms slightly, as if revealing an altar.
"You are already in it."
The silence broke—only slightly. A few exchanged glances. No one spoke.
"In Stage One," the Host continued, pacing slowly, "you are divided into five teams of five: Lions, Serpents, Eagles, Bears, and Sharks. You will cooperate. You will scheme. You will endure. Each day you will be faced with challenges—some played as a team, others in trios, pairs, and some entirely alone. You will need to think. Plan. Strategize. Adapt. Because the real Trials," he said, smiling wider now, "will make your pre-entry assessments feel like a toddler's game of tag."
And there it was.
The Snake saw it clearly now—behind the tailored charm, the billionaire's true motive gleamed like a blade in moonlight: entertainment. Not justice. Not reward. Not opportunity. No—this was sport for him. Blood sport. Psychological warfare as dinner theatre.
But if it paid twenty-five million pounds?
The Snake could live with that.
"How does the money work, then?" asked the tallest of the Sharks, his voice thick with a warm, unmistakable Brazilian accent. Rafael something. "There's 25 of us, right? 25 million. That a million each? We kill one, the pot goes up?"
The billionaire clapped once—sharp and amused. "A delightful thought, Mr. Rafael Vilar. But, no. That's what I wanted you to think." He paused, letting the confusion simmer. "But that's not how this game plays out."
A ripple of voices, a chorus of what?s and waits and one or two nervous chuckles broke across the room like a sudden breeze.
He lifted a single finger.
"As of this moment—one of you is already the millionaire."
The Snake blinked.
The air in the room seemed to shift. Something cold pressed at the back of everyone's necks.