KAYROS'S POV
She came.
And everything else faded before my eyes. Only her.
I stand on the top floor of the auction house, wine glass cool in my hand, Isabella's arm looped through mine for appearances. The distant hum of conversation rises from the floors below.
My head still rings with tension. I know the rumors about someone knowing the real culprit behind the Berlin New Year fire—the fire that paralyzed my mother, that killed Timofey's wife and daughter—are likely false. A manipulation. A game.
Yet that tiny chance of truth makes me restless as a caged animal.
Ophelia is sharp. Cruel. Ruthless. I've learned that much.
But when she lifts her wine glass in my direction and *smiles*—
I want to strangle her and kiss her in the same breath.
My jaw tightens as our eyes meet across the vast space. Suddenly the distance between us feels infinite. Uncrossable.
"Your ex-fiancée, isn't it?" Isabella's voice barely registers.
I don't answer. Neither Odette nor I look away. The orchestra swells in the background. Curtains begin to fall, granting the privacy elites crave.
Odette looks away only when Raphael Blackwood calls her to his side.
I inhale deeply. Beside me, Isabella's eyes are fixed on Rhys with predatory hunger—her glacier gaze shining with the exact obsession that makes her useful. Controllable. Manipulable.
The lights dim. Every person in this room is either a multi-billionaire or someone capable of reshaping the economies of powerful nations. And they all watch me with wariness.
Is this power? Yes.
But what's the point of being the most powerful man in the room when the woman I wanted to trust me never truly did?
"Can I have Rhys tonight?" Isabella whispers, still staring at her prey.
I turn to her, bored. "If you can afford him."
She laughs with that grating overconfidence that makes me want to snap her neck. For the plan's sake, I don't.
"Your fiancée—ex-fiancée—burned down your mother's house," she pushes. "Does that mean you'll burn hers?"
My blood freezes. The image of the penthouse in flames flashes behind my eyes—my mother's pictures, her clothes, all reduced to ash. A low, animalistic growl rumbles in my throat as I turn to her.
"If you prefer a safe life," I say quietly, "stop poking me."
Isabella pales and nods without another word.
---
"THE FIRST ITEM OF THE AUCTION!"
The presenter's voice commands the room. A spotlight illuminates a rare blue diamond necklace—a shade so deep and pure it cannot be bought with millions alone.
The bidding begins. I sip my wine slowly.
Item after item sells for ridiculous sums. Greed gleams in every eye—that dangerous hunger that makes people puppets to money and power.
The Blackwoods haven't bought anything. Unusual. Normally they dominate these auctions, buying low and reselling high to desperate clients.
Raphael Blackwood simply smokes. Rhys doesn't move from his spot.
And I understand instantly.
Odette is controlling them now.
My grip tightens around my wine glass until a hairline crack forms. The real Ophelia never gained this kind of influence over her family. Yet here they sit, Raphael and Rhys, aligned with her like she's already their chosen queen.
Candle smoke curls through the air, flickering with the tension in my chest.
The curtains part again. Another spotlight.
My breath stops.
A golden pendant hangs around the neck of a woman's clay statue.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some think it's a joke—a nameless statue on the world's most exclusive auction stage.
But their voices fade as I trace the statue's lines. The soft fall of curls. Eyes that seem frozen by time itself, untouched by worldly concerns. The golden pendant catches the light like a whisper.
"This clay statue," the presenter announces, "is the final remaining work of the infamous artist, Atropos."
Silence.
Atropos. The mysterious sculptor known for two things: statues so lifelike they seem to breathe, and prophecies that shaped dynasties.
No one knows her true face, her age, her origin. Three hundred and fifty-five years ago, she appeared in a southern French village and began creating. The powerful dismissed her prophecies at first—until war, ruin, and the rise and fall of empires proved her right, one by one.
Then she vanished.
Her successor, Lachesis, claimed that before disappearing, Atropos crafted five statues of five individuals destined to hold power over events that would reshape the world. Each contained a prophecy meant only for its subject.
But the statues were never found. Until now.
In my past life, this statue never appeared. Never.
My chest tightens. The more I study the woman's face—the soft jaw, the long lashes, the guarded, weary expression—the more a chill crawls up my spine.
Familiar. Impossibly familiar.
No one bids. Perhaps they fear the curse rumored to follow Atropos's creations. Perhaps they simply don't know what price to name.
"Twenty million dollars."
My head snaps down. Odette. She made the first bid of the night.
Does she know about Atropos? She isn't even from this world.
"Twenty-five million." I counter.
Her eyes darken. I don't flinch. I can't care about her glare—not when this statue stirs something I don't understand.
"Thirty million." Firm. Unyielding.
"Forty-two million."
She pauses. My lips twitch into a smirk. I think I've won.
I was wrong.
"One hundred and forty million dollars."
Someone gasps behind me. I freeze, staring down at her.
Did she just—
Odette rises as the auctioneer announces her name like she's some kind of queen. The room erupts in applause.
And I couldn't care less about any of them.
This outrageous woman.