Riven stood among the Nexus elite, mask gleaming under violet light, scent suppressed, posture flawless. The crowd circled him with champagne smiles and calculated words, but he felt every glance. Every measure.
Across the atrium, Rowen and Robin lingered with their cousins, eyes sharp with the memory of the conference room—of how his pheromones had dropped them to their knees. Their smiles tonight were tight, bitter.
And then the air changed.
A hush rippled outward, subtle as static, until the laughter faltered and the music thinned. Heads turned. Spines straightened.
He walked in.
No pheromone. No fanfare. Just presence.
The tall figure cut through the atrium like shadow incarnate, every step a recalibration of the room itself. His suit was black and merciless, the violet waistcoat veined with silver circuitry—Nexus etched across his chest like a brand. On his lapel, a laurel crown twisted into a suppression sigil. His mask—winged, horned, forged in black and silver—didn't conceal so much as command. Look away, it warned. Or dare to keep looking.
Riven's breath hitched.
He wasn't mingling. He wasn't celebrating. He was watching. Measuring. Unraveling.
Whispers bled through the crowd like cracks in glass."Who is that?"
"VVIP?"
"Security detail?"
But the executives nearest him stilled as their eyes found the insignia pinned to his chest.
"That's the Emperor," one whispered.
And silence swallowed the atrium whole.
Even Riven turned, his world narrowing to a single figure.
For one sharp moment, the suit he wore—the silver, the silk, the mask—felt less like armor and more like imitation. A reflection dressed in borrowed power.
Rowen's voice cut the quiet, too smooth to be sincere.
"Looks like tonight gathered every major player in the business world."
Robin stepped forward, smile sharp but strained. "Finally, a face to the man behind Raventhorne's empire."
Rowen tilted his head, gaze locking onto the masked man. "Or not. Seems you're still not ready to show us who you really are. If you were, this wouldn't be a masquerade party, would it?"
The man didn't flinch. His voice was smooth, measured—every syllable honed to a blade. "I'm not hiding, Mr. Virellian. And my choice of theme shouldn't concern you. A little mystery keeps things interesting, don't you think?"
Rowen smirked, but it faltered under the weight of that calm reply.
Nyxen, standing quietly nearby, felt a gentle tug on his sleeve. He glanced down and found Lior gazing up at him, wide-eyed, hand raised in a silent request.
"So," Rowen said, catching the gesture, "the elusive Raventhorne controller is a father now."
Nyxen's answer was a small nod. "That's right."
He leaned down, letting Lior step closer. The boy whispered something only he could hear.
"I want to go to Papa," Lior said softly.
Nyxen's mouth curved, not quite a smile—something sharper, quieter. "Alright. Go on. But be careful."
He released Lior's hand with a light ruffle to his hair. The boy hurried off, little footsteps skimming the polished deck.
Nyxen's eyes flicked to Thayer, already watching. A silent exchange passed; Thayer inclined his head and followed.
One of the businessmen broke down. "Mr. Raventhorne, we noticed you're not with the Nexus CEO tonight. We were surprised, honestly. A man not from your family leading Nexus? And after that bold move during the security breach—well, no wonder you chose him."
Nyxen's gaze shifted to him—cool, deliberate, heavy as a blade laid flat on the table. "He's quite good," he said simply. The correction landed with surgical precision, the air around them turning colder by degrees.
Rowen stiffened. Jaw tight. Pride flaring into rage. He reached inward, forcing a surge of dominant pheromones—his weapon, his right. But the suppression field caught it before it left his skin. The effort shuddered through him, leaving only a tremor at the corner of his mouth, a thin sheen of sweat across his brow.
The silence was merciless.
"Riven Virellian—the new CEO of Nexus—is your—" one of the businessmen began, but the words faltered. Rowen's gaze cut toward him, sharp enough to sever breath itself. The man's throat worked. He swallowed hard, looked away, as if he'd nearly stepped across a line that would have cost him everything.
Nyxen's eyes never left Rowen's. Calm. Lethal. The kind of patience that promised reckoning.
And Rowen, trapped in his own humiliation, could do nothing but endure it.
Riven stood at the railing, fingers curled tight around the cold metal, wind tearing at his hair. The sea below shifted like a restless mirror. He'd needed space—the earlier surge of his pheromones still clung to him like static, and only the Emperor's entrance had drawn attention away. Out here, he could finally breathe. Almost.
"Papa!"
The call sliced through the wind.
Riven turned, startled, and his chest eased at once. Lior was barreling toward him, grin bright, little shoes clapping against the polished deck. Thayer followed at a measured distance, hands clasped behind his back.
Riven's face softened. The day had swallowed him whole—meetings, eyes, pressure—but all of it dissolved the instant he saw his son. He bent, catching Lior mid-run, the boy's arms flinging tight around his neck. Warmth. Anchor. Home.
Still holding him, Riven's gaze swept the deck instinctively, searching. Eli should have been near. Always near.
Thayer caught the glance. "If you're looking for Eli," he said smoothly, "he went home."
Riven blinked. "Without saying goodbye?"
"Sea sickness," Thayer explained, tone light, almost casual. "He asked me to take over. Said he was sorry to leave Lior with me."
The words didn't sit right. Eli had insisted he was fine earlier, even joked about the waves. No hint of dizziness. No request for relief.
Riven frowned, his arms tightening slightly around Lior as if to shield him. The boy snuggled in closer, oblivious.
"Thanks," Riven said at last, his voice quiet but edged. "I hope he wasn't too much."
Thayer's smile was faint. Measured. "Lior's a good kid. Easy company."
The wind gusted, tugging at Riven's jacket, carrying the faintest trace of sea salt and steel. He kissed the top of Lior's head, but his eyes stayed on Thayer—watchful, weighing, unsettled.
"I'm a good boy," Lior echoed proudly, tugging at Riven's sleeve.
Riven smiled, ruffling his hair. "Yes, you are."
But his eyes drifted past the boy—toward the crowd. Executives. Masked elites. And at the center of it, Nyxen.
Thayer followed his gaze, silent.
Something in Riven's expression shifted. Not fear. Not awe. Recognition. As though he was seeing something he hadn't meant to.