The Ravion Global skyscraper sliced into the skyline like obsidian forged by gods—black, brilliant, and impossible to ignore. It stood in stark defiance of gravity and time, its glass skin reflecting not just the city lights, but the world's insatiable curiosity.
Tonight, for the first time in years, Kael Ravion stepped into the public eye for a rare appearance—his only one in recent memory. He was known to never do interviews nor grace red carpets. Heck, it was almost impossible to get a clear picture of him. The media called him a ghost in a tailored suit because he never let the press photograph him outside his corporate fortress.
He only ever surfaced for this one night—the charity gala held in his late father's name every ten years.
The moment his armored car pulled up to the private entrance, the air ignited. Cameras screamed. Security bristled. Reporters jostled behind velvet barricades, their shouts muffled by excitement and disbelief.
And then he emerged. Kael Ravion.
Tall. Impossibly composed. He wore a tux so black it seemed to drink the light. Every line of his form was sculpted with intent—a study in restraint and danger. The crowd went silent for a breathless moment, the kind usually reserved for eclipses or royalty.
He moved slowly, deliberately, as though time obeyed him.
His gaze swept over the mob like ice trailing fire. The press surged forward, desperate for even a flicker of attention. A smile. A wave. Anything at all? They got nothing.
Kael inclined his head once. His face bore no expression nor warmth. All he had to offer was his majestic presence. And so, the cameras exploded.
By morning, the headlines would worship him:
"Kael Ravion Breaks Silence at Father's Gala: The Billionaire Who Haunts the Spotlight"
"Kael Ravion's Eyes Set the Night on Fire"
"The World's Most Desired Man—Still Unclaimed"
And that was when Selene Raye descended like a comet in heels. Draped in a blood-red gown that dared anyone to look away, she glided toward him, every movement a performance. Supermodel. Humanitarian. A drop dead gorgeous woman wanted by powerful men.
"Kael darling," she purred, offering her hand. "We keep missing each other in Paris."
His silver eyes didn't blink. "Not by accident."
Selene's smile sharpened. "I do love a man who's hard to claim."
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek—public, poised, and possessive.
The cameras caught it like a prophecy. The crowd inhaled. Somewhere, PR agents cried tears of joy.
Kael didn't flinch but his eyes flicked toward the exit.
****
Across the city, Nyah sat on her unmade bed, laptop balanced on her knees, scrolling through the photos with narrowed eyes.
Kael, glacial and godlike, caught in the firestorm of flashbulbs.
She scoffed. "Oh please. Give me a break."
The gossip headlines were more unhinged than usual:
"Selene & Kael: Power Couple or PR Perfection?"
"Who Is the Woman in His Dreams? A Model? A Myth?"
"Kael Ravion: The Billionaire God with Eyes of Silver Flame"
Nyah leaned closer to the screen, her breath hitching. Those eyes of his haunted her.
In the dream—Aelareth, she had called it in her sleep—the man's face had been obscured. His long dark hair had fallen like a veil, hiding everything but his voice… and his molten silver eyes. Eyes that didn't just look at you—they claimed you. The same eyes now staring out of the screen.
Her chest tightened. A strange heat curled low in her belly, the memory of the dream still clinging to her like perfume. The silk dress. The whisper of "mine." The feel of his hand sliding along her waist.
Was it Kael?
She didn't know for sure but she sure was going to find out.
Her phone buzzed violently. She answered without looking.
"Please tell me you are getting ready," Laila shrieked into the phone.
Nyah's eyes darted to the bedside clock. "Shit! What time is the gala again?"
"Girl! Get your ass out of bed and straight into the shower right now! I'm on my way to your place with your dress for tonight. Please don't get on my last nerve!," Laila shrieked.
Nyah sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. "I'm going, I'm going."
She hung up and glanced back at her laptop one more time. Kael's photo stared back at her.
Nyah's jaw set. A slow smile touched her lips—sharp, curious, defiant.
"I am intrigued by you, Mr. Ravion. Let's see what you're really up to."
****
If power had a face in Vienna tonight, it was Nyah's.
The ballroom inside the Palais D'Or shimmered with generational wealth and quiet, ruthless influence. Walls veined with crystal, chandeliers like constellations in full bloom. The music—a hush of jazz—spilled through the room like perfume laced with poison.
And then Nyah stepped through the arched doorway—and the temperature changed. Her entrance wasn't loud. But it echoed.
The room paused, almost respectfully, as she appeared on the arm of Raif Mirza, heir to a trillion-dollar oil empire and one of the world's most eligible bachelors. His presence alone turned heads while hers silenced voices.
Her dress was like liquid midnight, silk sculpted to a body made for headlines, slit daringly high and fastened at the waist with a single sapphire clasp that winked beneath the lights like a secret. Her hair was swept into a loose knot, secured with a vintage diamond brooch like a quiet signature in the folds.
She looked like every man's fantasy and every strategist's nightmare.
In the world of covert systems and ironclad firewalls, Nyah, known as Nathan D. Keene, was a whispered legend. A cybersecurity savant with government-clearance skills and an unpredictable mind. But outside that shadowy realm, her name lived in another circle altogether: the one carved by global elites who invited her as their "date" to galas, auctions, and summits—not just to be seen, but to feel safe, powerful and revered.
She wasn't an arm candy. She was an armor. A woman whose very presence suggested taste, status, and mystery. Men wanted to be photographed with her. Women wanted to know how she moved like that and never flinched. But Nyah couldn't be bothered with all the glitz and glam. She wanted access.
These invitations got her into rooms most people only ever read about. She didn't need to flirt or scheme. She listened. She watched. And people, drunk on money and ego, always said too much when they thought beauty meant silence and adorable stupidity.
Nyah knew her angle. The attention kept her insulated, connected. She wasn't here for hearts. She was here for the doors. Sometimes those doors led to intelligence. Sometimes to restricted archives. Sometimes, to things people thought she'd never understand.
Tonight, she'd arrived with Raif, a harmless choice. He was charming, predictable, and quite easy to read. He loved being seen with her, and she liked that he didn't pretend otherwise.
"You know, Nyah," he said, placing his glass on the marble table, "my mother keeps asking when I'll bring home a wife. I'm tempted to say I've already found her."
She sipped her rosé, flashing him a lazy smile. "How sweet. Tell her I said hi."
Raif grinned. "You never let a man catch you, do you?"
"I let them chase," she said, eyes glinting. "Some run faster than others."
But Nyah's eyes were already elsewhere. She wasn't sure what pulled her attention—until she felt it. The pressure of a gaze. The flicker of something... electric.
She turned her head, slowly like the universe commanded her to.
And there—leaning against a pillar of carved marble, suit blacker than vengeance, whiskey in hand, and eyes like storms lined in silver—stood Kael Ravion.
Her breath caught, just for a moment. Then her gaze brushed over him like he was nobody before she deliberately turned her eyes away.
She could feel the heat of his stare all the way across the floor. And she smiled.
****
Across the ballroom, Kael burned. He hadn't planned on drinking, but the glass in his hand was half-empty now, and he couldn't remember picking it up. His grip was too tight around the crystal.
She was with Raif whose hands lingered too long and whose grin was a fraction too possessive. Heck, even his laugh reached her ears far too often.
Kael could've bought and buried Raif's empire before dessert but that wasn't the point right now.
The point wasn't that she was with Raif instead of him. The point was she had never given him that kind of attention. The point was she had never appeared on his arm, in front of cameras, where the world could speculate and drool.
A voice in his head—cold, rational, the same one that had gotten him through wars and boardrooms for centuries—snapped, "You don't even appear in public. You hate cameras. You hate being seen."
True.
But tonight, watching her laugh with Raif like she belonged there—glowing, dangerous, untouchable—
Kael would've built a ballroom and held a party every night of the week if it meant she'd walk into it with him.
He was mad not just at her but at himself.
He'd warned himself countless times that entertaining the thought of a woman, especially one like Nyah, was a disaster waiting to happen. The disaster would be a fatal fracture in the legacy he'd spent centuries building and protecting. Aelareth couldn't afford weakness. Not from him. Not now. He was built for control, not craving for a woman.
But damn her, she made it feel like craving was the only thing he'd ever really learned how to do. She could burn him alive and still, he would thank her for the fire.
"Should we say hello?" Selene Raye murmured, sliding into his periphery like perfume on silk. She touched his sleeve like she had every right. "She certainly made an entrance."
Kael didn't look at her. His eyes never left Nyah. "She always does."
Selene's gaze narrowed slightly, voice curling with venom just under velvet. "Striking, in that... predictably dangerous way."
Kael's reply was icy. "She's alright."
Selene smiled sweetly, her tone all designer lace and ambition. "If you're still in need of company for the embassy ball, I'm available. Your name on my lips would do wonders for both of us."
Kael finally turned to her, his voice smooth but dead. "I'm not in the business of political favors."
"Oh, but I am," she said, stepping closer. "And I'm excellent at it."
He didn't reply because across the room, Nyah was laughing with her head tilted back. Raif's fingers brushed her bare shoulder—
And Kael saw red. He looked away. He hated the feeling clawing inside him. Jealousy wasn't his style. Control was. But she... she made him forget every rule he'd built his empire on.
He couldn't help himself so he looked at her table again but she was gone. Just like that, Nyah had vanished. Slipped through the ballroom like a shadow in satin.
And Kael Ravion—warrior Lord, tech titan, master of logic, predator of markets—was suddenly and recklessly hunting.
****
He found her near the bar, alone—for the briefest flicker of time. So he stepped in like a storm claiming silence.
"I see you are quite busy tonight," Kael murmured, voice low and dangerous.
Nyah didn't turn. "Oh, you noticed?"
He leaned closer, his breath skimming the edge of her bare shoulder. "Hard not to notice you holding court like a goddess on loan."
She hummed, unimpressed. "Careful. If I didn't know better, I'd think you sound jealous."
Kael's fingers grazed the stem of her glass as he slid it from her hand, setting it on the bar. Their bodies were inches apart—heat crashing between them like a tide neither of them knew how to stop.
"I didn't know you moonlighted as arm candy," he murmured, voice dipped in venom. "Is Raif paying well for the privilege?"
That got her.
She turned, slowly—her eyes cold fire, lips parted in something between a smirk and a snarl.
"Do not insult me. I don't entertain men I can't destroy," she said, gaze raking him. "So unless you've done something scandalous lately, you're safe."
His lips twitched.
"That's a shame," he said. "I was considering asking you to forget about your date for tonight and be by my side instead."
She leaned forward, eyes glittering. "Kael, you couldn't afford me. Not with your soul, not with your secrets. And certainly not with that wounded pride of yours."
The air between them crackled. Everything about her was maddening—too smooth, too distant, too much. He knew he was right where she wanted him. His mouth twitched.
She surely knows how to test my patience, he thought.
Nyah tilted her head. "I am having a good time now so why don't you run along to brood in the corner or go seduce other women with your cheekbones?"
He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Oh, I didn't know you had a thing for my cheekbones."
"I have a thing for danger," she replied smoothly. "Not obnoxious men playing alpha."
"You talk like you're immune to me," he said, eyes locked on hers. "But I see the way you look when you think I'm not watching. I feel you unravel every time I get close."
"I think about you," she said with a knife-edge smile. "When I need to remind myself what happens when I lower my standards."
"Watch your tongue," he warned, voice tightening. "I don't play. I bite.. really hard."
"Ohhh.. I'm scared," she crooned mockingly.
"Keep talking like that and I just might lay you down nicely on that table and bite every inch of your body until you beg me to take you," he growled.
They were standingtoo close now. Her perfume—a volatile blend of spice and starlight—swirled between them. His jaw clenched. She held her breath as her body threatened to explode. Time stood still as they stared at each other.
Then she turned away slowly and deliberately. "Have fun fantasizing about me, Mr. Ravion. My date must be looking for me."
He exhaled sharply, voice thick with want. "You'd look better on my arm, you know."
"I'd look better walking away," she said.
And she walked away.
Damn, she looked even more gorgeous, he thought.