2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Julian
I don’t attend mortal celebrations. They’re boring and a waste of time. But at least this one has alcohol.
I knew it the moment I stepped through the doors— wealth pressed against every surface, suffocating in its extravagance. Gold-trimmed tables stretch beneath chandeliers, their crystal facets refracting artificial warmth. The scent of expensive perfume and freshly cut flowers clings to the air, mixing with the undertone of champagne and desperation.
Another human spectacle. Another display of power disguised as romance. I should leave.
And yet, I stay.
Something feels off.
I straighten my tie as I step inside, the fabric smooth beneath my fingers. My suit is dark, crisp, tailored to fit a presence that was never invited yet never questioned. A shade too sharp for a place meant to feel warm. A hint of midnight against the forced glow of celebration.
Something pulled me to this moment. I trust my intuition, it’s never led me astray before.
I sigh and grab a flute of champagne, taking an idle sip as I scan the room. This is the wedding of Melanie Arden, the pinnacle of a deal sealed ten years ago. Her father bargained for success, and he received it. She is at her peak, thriving, untouchable. She is not a failure.
Which means it isn’t time to collect.
I may never collect Cassius Arden’s soul at all. Who knows? Melanie may always be successful. That’s what they wanted, isn’t it? They don’t care about the price.
Pride is something. Ego is more.
I walk further into the venue.
The ceremony is over. The applause has died, the vows already dissolving into memory, meaningless words wrapped in spectacle. Now, the real show begins—the reception, the stage where the perfect couple plays their part for the world.
Even the guests are accessories. Selected for status, influence, and their ability to elevate the illusion.
Not a single thing about this wedding is real.
My gaze drifts to the newlyweds.
Dominic Forsythe, Hollywood’s golden prince, a man who has played so many roles, I wonder if he remembers which one is truly his. His smiles, effortless and charming, are perfectly attuned to the cameras that linger.
Melanie Arden, standing at his side, holds his hand like she’s holding a trophy. She does not look at him. Not really. Her gaze flickers over the guests, the press, the performance unfolding around her.
This is what Cassius Arden wanted. A daughter who could captivate,r one who could shine.
I take another sip of champagne. The taste is fine, but it’s human, forgettable.
This is not why I’m here.
These people know I don’t belong here. The way they glance at me. Uncertain. Drawn in without understanding why.
The women are the most obvious. Staring. Wanting.
One in particular.
She watches me like she already knows how this ends. Sex eyes. A silent offer. An invitation.
I don’t care who she is. Her name, her voice, none of it matters.
But her body?
The way she shifts, tilts her head just enough to expose the curve of her neck, the way her dress clings to every place that matters—that is something worth noticing.
And of course, that’s when I hear it. A voice I’d rather ignore. Sharp. Entitled. Cassius. It cuts through the space, low and furious, laced with that same arrogance he always carries. But this time? There’s something else beneath it. Something fraying.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice snaps through the air, barely muffled by the closed door. "Look at you—pathetic. You can't even handle yourself for one night?"
A pause. Silence. No response.
That's when the woman decides to strut over like she always gets what she wants. Like the room was made for her, and I’m just another trophy to collect. Her hips sway with practiced precision, confidence bleeding from every step. She stops in front of me, too close, eyes sharp with expectation.
“You look like you need a break from all this,” she says, fingers brushing my jacket like she’s done this a hundred times. “Come with me. Just for a minute.”
I don’t answer. The voice I’m listening for isn’t hers.
She leans in, pressing against me like her body’s an invitation I should be grateful for. “Please,” she whispers, breath warm against my neck. “I can make it good. I swear.”
Still nothing. My attention is elsewhere.
She grabs my lapels, tighter this time, her tone breaking. “Don’t walk away. Just one more minute. Please.”
I take her wrists and pull her off me—calmly, precisely. Not a struggle. Just removal.
“No.”
She laughs. Cold. Cutting.
“You act like a god, but I see what you are. All that power—still begging for scraps like the rest of us.”
I let it happen. My eyes shift—the color bleeding into something deeper, richer, consuming. Blood-red.
Her breath catches. Her body goes stiff. The room disappears. She sees. Her deepest fear. Her worst future. Her own death.
A strangled, broken sound slips from her lips. She stumbles back, nearly tripping over her own feet as she claws at her chest like she can rip the terror out of herself.
I step forward, slow, unbothered. I let her drown in it for one second longer than she can bear.
My eyes shift back to normal in a blink.
She crumples against the wall, shaking, panting, clutching at her chest as if she can still feel the shadow of what I showed her.
I straighten my tie, adjust my jacket, and step forward.
I stumble walking around the corner. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but I feel it. A shift. A crack. Something inside me is catching on an edge it shouldn’t have.
My breath tightens. The world blurs at the edges, everything fading into meaningless shapes, meaningless noise.
Until I see her. And the world stops, nothing else exists.
She isn’t just beautiful. She’s something otherworldly, something that doesn’t belong in a place like this. She shouldn’t be here.
But she is.
Her hair is dark blonde, messy even now, strands slipping free from whatever careless attempt had been made to tame it. Crystal blue eyes, striking against the dim lighting, sharp but unreadable, guarded in a way that makes me want to break past the walls and see what’s inside.
She’s dressed for the occasion, but it doesn’t suit her.
The dress is skimpy, tacky—a thing meant to demand attention rather than deserve it. It clings to her in a way that cheapens her beauty, a costume forced onto someone who doesn’t belong in the role. Like she didn’t choose it. Like someone else did.
Sunkissed skin, dusted with freckles that don’t belong in a world of polished vanity. I wonder if she had to scrub herself raw to fit in tonight. If she stood in front of a mirror and erased the paint smudges from her hands, her arms, her face, stripping away every piece of herself that didn’t match the setting.
Slender but strong. The kind of strength that doesn’t come from power but from survival. Delicate in appearance, but something about her feels unbreakable.
She’s stiff beneath Cassius’ grip, her face blank, expression carefully set, but I see it. The tension in her shoulders. The slight tremble in her fingers. The way her body screams against being handled.
And her eyes. Crystal blue, but hollow.
That’s what stops m, not her beauty, her presence. Not even the way she looks in a dress she clearly hates. It’s her emptiness.
Something inside me pulls tight. Painfully tight.
I don’t know what it is. But I know it’s never happened before.
I inhale sharply, pulse steady but pounding too loud in my ears. And before I can think, before I can even try to understand why this feels like fate snapping into place— A force rips through me, through the room, through everything.
It isn’t a shift. It isn’t a warning. It’s a reckoning. Something I was told would come for me one day. Something I never truly believed. My parents, my aunt, my uncle. They all warned me.
I never listened, never thought it was possible. But now, it’s happening. And there’s no stopping it.
The air thickens, pressing down like an invisible hand closing around my throat, suffocating the moment into existence. Pressure builds—not just around me, but inside me, in my ribs, my veins, something ancient and undeniable forcing itself into reality.
The first spark hits—a flicker of gold beneath her skin. It slithers through her veins like fire, curling, twisting—spreading.
Her body seizes, jerking violently as heat erupts from within, searing through her, deeper than bone, into her soul.
She screams. Not a sound. A rupture.
Raw, agonized, primal—not just pain, but something being ripped from her very core. It crashes through the room, through me, the force of it sinking into my ribs, my lungs, my very being.
And I feel it.
A sharp, visceral sting lances through my chest, piercing muscle, threading through marrow, a burning that isn’t mine but still binds itself to me.
Cassius moves before anyone else.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He doesn’t check if she’s breathing, doesn’t kneel beside her, doesn’t even acknowledge the way she writhes on the floor, gasping for air.
Instead, his jaw tightens, his eyes burning with something sharp, not fear—but rage.
"Get up," he snaps.
She doesn’t move. She can’t.
Her body is still wracked with pain, her breath ragged and uneven. She presses her forehead against the floor, fingers digging into the marble as if she can anchor herself, as if she can make it stop.
Cassius doesn’t care.
His fingers clamp around her arm, yanking her up like she’s nothing.
She stumbles, legs barely holding her, knees buckling under the weight of whatever just tore through her. Another broken cry slips past her lips as she tries to wrench away, but his grip only tightens.
"You are an embarrassment," he hisses. "Do you hear me? An embarrassment to this family."
Her chest heaves, her body still trembling, but she doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t have to.
I see the way she bites down hard, pressing her lips together, her shoulders locking into place. She won’t fight back.
Not because she agrees with him. Because she knows it’s useless.
Cassius shoves open a door—a small, dimly lit room, somewhere to discard her, to keep her out of sight, out of mind —and throws her inside.
She hits the floor, gasping, curling into herself.
And before Cassius can step away—I move. My hand grips the back of his collar, and with a sharp yank, I throw him out.
His back slams against the opposite wall, the impact shaking the framed art behind him. He blinks, stunned for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching as he looks up, confusion twisting into fury.
I adjust my cuff, exhaling slowly, my pulse still thrumming from something I don’t want to name.
"You’ve done enough."
Cassius’ jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides, but he doesn’t step forward, doesn’t try to re-enter the room.
Good.
I step toward the woman, now cowering on the floor. I should be annoyed by this. But something about her—something about this moment—sinks its teeth into me before I can shake it off.
"Just breathe," I murmur, more out of instinct than intent. “Where does it hurt?"
She moves her dress away, trembling fingers peeling back the fabric to expose the skin just above her heart. My gaze drops, and I see it.
My mark.
My soulmate mark.
The Mark of Duvain.
It is not a simple brand, not ink, not magic in the way mortals understand. It is something deeper, something alive. The shape is ancient, the design unmistakable—a twisted sigil of darkened gold and deep crimson, curling like fire that has been frozen in time. The edges pulse faintly, like embers waiting to be reignited, sinking into her skin like it was carved there by something older than existence itself.
Over her heart. It’s flawless, absolute. And it shouldn’t be on her.
I inhale sharply, pulse steady but pounding too loud in my ears. I don’t need to touch it to know it’s still burning, still settling into her body like a claim that can never be undone.
She’s still gasping for breath, her hand hovering just above it, like she’s too afraid to touch it, too afraid to acknowledge what’s now a part of her.
"What is happening to me?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"I’m sorry," I sigh. "I’m so sorry, but it means—"
A pounding on the door cuts me off.
"Ophelia! Get out here now!"
The name slams into me like a fist to the ribs.
Ophelia.
She exhales sharply, still shaken but forcing herself up. "I’m coming!" she yells. "I’m sorry. My father’s calling me."
She rushes out of the room.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
All of a sudden, it hits me.
Ophelia Arden.
The painter. The girl I stripped of emotion, gifting her talent to a sister who never deserved it. The woman whose suffering is tied to my own.
My fucking soulmate.
Deals are unbreakable. Final. Absolute. I should forget about her, let fate take its course.
But I don’t.
I start to pace, pulse thrumming with something sharp, something I don’t want to name. I don’t find loopholes. I don’t break the rules.
But for the first time, I want to. I don’t care what the contract says.
Cassius will never fucking touch her again. No one will.
She belongs to me. Not because of a deal.
Because fate decided it.