If I told you I had a talent for attracting the wrong situation—and, of course, the wrong man within that same mess—would you believe me?
Because it's clearly happening again.
Sebastian Von Kleist is watching me with a grin that says it all:
You're my prey, Anaya.
I look away. Not because I'm scared.
...Okay, I am scared. Every nerve in my body is screaming.
This man is dangerous. Stay away.
I drift back toward the champagne fountain. There's a buzz of uncomfortable murmurs behind me, but I barely hear them.
How could I?
When those ice-blue eyes are still locked on me, dissecting me, even through the crowd. I pretend the glint of champagne in the glass is the most fascinating thing in the room.
Men like Von Kleist are lethal. He knows exactly how to wield his beauty like a weapon—how to make a rotten personality tolerable through charm and power. Men like him crave amusement.
And I refuse to be his next form of entertainment.
The lights dim and focus on the stage, now transformed into a lavish opera setup. Musicians wait in place as Director Louis, every bit the dramatic knight, escorts Ana Margeret forward, earning a wave of delighted gasps.
She wears an emerald green, off-shoulder mermaid gown cinched at the waist. Her brown hair is styled in a loose bun that bares her elegant collarbone. Even at 47, she looks effortlessly 27. Her eyes scan the room, lips curled in a teasing smile.
—"Ana is performing tonight?" —"She rarely performs, not even for insane amounts of money. This alone made the evening worth it." —"That's Ana Margeret? She's divine."
I can't help but smirk at the normally poised, snake-like elites now melting in awe.
Ana blushes at something the Director whispers. When he steps down, she steps forward and addresses the room.
"Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs. Peut-être ne vous attendiez-vous pas à me voir ce soir… Et pourtant, en voyant tant de visages familiers, je n'ai pas pu résister à l'envie de vous offrir une œuvre toute nouvelle. J'espère qu'elle saura vous émouvoir autant que les autres moments de cette soirée."
[Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps you weren't expecting to see me tonight… And yet, upon seeing so many familiar faces, I couldn't resist sharing a brand-new piece. I hope it moves you as deeply as the rest of tonight's performances.]
From across the room, I catch Director Louis shooting me a smug look that says, See? Still got it. Now, once this ends, save me before she drags me to bed. I'm a married man.
I chuckle and give him a subtle nod. He turns back to the woman practically swooning beside him.
As Ana begins to sing, the room quiets. Her expression—intense and full of emotion—pulls the air from the space. I don't know much about opera, but the music is haunting, sensual... heavy.
"Handling a crisis well, Anaya."
That voice.
That smooth, low pitch—so familiar it freezes me.
I turn my head. He's standing right beside me. I'm not short—5'4" in three-inch heels makes me 5'7"—but next to him, I feel absurdly small.
"I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Von Kleist," I answer coolly, suppressing every nerve inside me.
He holds his wine glass with effortless grace, the way elite men do. Maybe it's the lighting. Or maybe it's my frayed nerves.
But he seems... otherworldly. Cold and calculating.
"To get Ana Margeret onstage without prior notice," he says, his voice low and laced with something unhinged, "You're clever. A wolf hiding in sheep's clothing."
Damn it.
He's been watching me too closely. I try to avoid men like him—the kind who look at you like they already know the ending to your story.
I have two options.
Play dumb. Pretend to be harmless and silly—risk being exposed.
Or show him the version of me he already sees.
I look up at him, my smile sharp. "The world isn't kind to ambitious women, Mr. Von Kleist. If pretending to be harmless keeps me alive, I'll play the sheep."
He doesn't smile. Just watches me, silently.
"So... hiding behind Louis Laurant isn't about affection, but survival?" he asks, raising a brow.
"You're not entirely wrong," I admit.
Ana's voice fills the space behind us.
"Do you know what this song is about?" he asks, his voice a whisper, intimate.
"I'm afraid I don't indulge in such luxurious hobbies," I reply lightly.
This time, he chuckles. Low and deep. I grip my skirt to keep from reacting.
"It's about a man who has everything but feels hollow," he murmurs. "He falls in love with an angel. But he's a sinner—one who never sought redemption until her."
I frown. Opera sings about tragic metaphors like this?
"But a sinner and an angel could never be together," I say before I can stop myself.
He nods slowly. "So to keep her close, he cuts off her wings. Locks her in a golden cage only he can enter. But the light inside her fades. She becomes a living corpse."
I turn back to the stage. Ana's voice feels like a requiem now—for a woman who died because she was loved too violently.
What can be a greater tragedy than being loved by a man who wants to own you!
"Does he regret it? He didn't fall in love with a cage bird," I ask, my voice cold. Yeah, that idea of getting caged is scarier than anything else.
"He regrets clipping her wings," he says, taking a sip of wine. "But never loving her. Even as he buried her, he knew—she was still the only person he ever truly loved."
I Scoff. Sure, sure. Lunatics have unique way of feelings things.
"Does he regret not letting her go?" I ask as the opera progressed which also seems like climax or something.
He looks at me, his gaze unreadable. "No. He regrets not becoming her sky, so she could soar within it."
A shiver dances down my spine. And judging by the gasps around us, I'm not the only one.
Ana finishes. The room erupts in applause.
"That's disgusting," I mutter. "Disturbing. No sane person would do that."
He doesn't reply instantly, not that I am hoping for one.
"You're right," he replies, his tone darker almost like assessing something in his mind, "No sane person would."
I glance up.
God, he's tall. Too blonde.
"Ms. Fernandes," I hear the senior finance manager calling, pointing to the stage.
Time to rescue Director Louis.
"Thank you for the story, Mr. Von Kleist. Enjoy the rest of your evening," I say politely.
He doesn't respond. And I don't wait.
This man is trouble.
Too cold. Too calculating.
The nickname Ice Prince fits him. Everything about him is chilling—his presence, his gaze, his voice.
"Anaya."
I stop.
Oh fuck! I wish I just left.
He stands with that infuriating smirk. "The piano... I ruined it."
I blink. He did it?
That smug look. That impressive work comment earlier.
My fingers go cold, but fury heats my blood.
"For entertainment?" I ask coldly.
He sips his wine. "Yes. I expected chaos, but found something better."
His voice is a razor dipped in velvet. And I swear if I don't hold my tongue, I might scream.
All that work. All that planning.
And he destroyed it—for fun.
If only—
If only he weren't a Von Kleist.
I smile, brittle and cold. "I hope we humble creatures lived up to your refined standards, Mr. Von Kleist."
My words are sharp enough to draw blood.
He grins. "You did. And I look forward to how you'll continue to entertain me, Anaya."
"Acting is your profession, Mr. Von Kleist," I say evenly. "I'm no puppet in your show."
He raises a brow, amused, and turns to leave—his final words soft and venom-laced.
"I appreciate that mentality."