CHAPTER 12 The Altered Reality
I don't sleep.
Sleep would mean missing a single second of this—Leah's small body pressed against my side, her face buried in my chest, her hand resting over my heart like she's checking to make sure it still beats.
It does. Slowly. Steadily. With the same mechanical precision it's had for nineteen years.
But something about having her voluntarily seeking my proximity in sleep makes it feel almost significant. Almost like the organ actually serves a purpose beyond pumping blood through my system.
Almost.
I lie perfectly still for six hours and forty-three minutes, maintaining the exact position I was in when she first crawled across the mattress toward me.
My arm doesn't fall asleep despite the awkward angle.
My back doesn't ache from the unnatural posture.
Physical discomfort is just data, and I'm very good at ignoring data that isn't relevant to my current objective.
My current objective being: don't move, don't breathe too deeply, don't do anything that might wake her and break this perfect moment where she's chosen me over the empty space that represented safety for the last week.
She mutters something in her sleep around 4:17 AM. Unintelligible even if I could hear it properly, but her hand tightens fractionally against my chest and her face presses harder into the space between my shoulder and sternum.
She's dreaming. Hopefully not nightmares—the conditioning should have taken care of those by now. More likely something neutral. Or maybe—if the psychological manipulation I've been carefully layering into her subconscious is working as designed—she's dreaming about me.
About safety. About protection. About a monster who burns down buildings full of bad memories and calls it love.
I let myself have one indulgence in these dark hours: I lower my face slightly and breathe in the scent of her hair. It smells like the expensive shampoo from the bathroom. No floral nonsense—I made sure of that. Just clean and simple and hers.
At 6:32 AM, I carefully—so carefully—extract myself from her proximity.
She makes a small sound of protest in her sleep, her hand reaching out as if searching for the warm body that was just there. I replace myself with a pillow, tucking it against her chest. She curls around it immediately, and the protest stops.
Satisfied that she'll sleep for at least another two hours, I shower quickly and change into fresh clothes. Black trousers, charcoal button-up, my usual holster with the Glock secured in its familiar place. I look exactly like what I am: expensive, dangerous, and completely in control.
I have a meeting this morning that can't be postponed.
The other princes want to talk.
The underground lounge where we occasionally meet is exactly as pretentious as you'd expect from four legacy heirs who were raised to believe they're royalty.
It's in the basement of an old fraternity house that's been converted into something more exclusive—leather furniture, dim lighting, a bar that's always stocked with alcohol that costs more per bottle than most people make in a week.
Evander Laurent is already there when I arrive, sitting in his usual chair like it's a throne. Crown Prince. The architect. The one who thinks he controls everything because he controls most things.
Tristan Virelle is by the window, barely visible in the shadows. Shadow Prince. The illusionist. The one who manipulates perception until people can't tell reality from the version he wants them to see.
Lucius Whitcroft is at the bar, pouring something expensive into a crystal glass with theatrical precision. Rogue Prince. The anarchist. The one who creates chaos and calls it entertainment.
And then there's me. The Reaper Prince. The void. The one they invited into their little American kingdom because my family's European empire makes their trust funds look like allowance money.
"Nikolai," Evander says, his voice perfectly modulated. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just acknowledging my existence. "We need to talk about your fire."
I smile—that pleasant, empty smile—and settle into the chair across from him. "My fire? I'm not sure what you're referring to."
"St. Catherine's," Tristan says from his position by the window. His voice is quiet but precise. "The orphanage that burned down last night with three bodies inside. The same orphanage where a certain deaf girl we all know was once a resident."
Lucius laughs, the sound sharp and genuinely amused. "Fuck, man. That was fast. She told you yesterday?"
"I don't recall sharing my girlfriend's personal history with any of you," I say mildly. Girlfriend. The word is new. Leah doesn't know she has that title yet, but she will. Soon.
"You didn't have to," Evander says. "I have sources in law enforcement. The minute 'arson with multiple fatalities' and 'former abuse facility' crossed the same report, I knew it was you. You're the only one of us stupid enough to move that fast."
"Stupid," I repeat thoughtfully. "Or efficient."
"Stupid," Evander confirms. "Because now there's attention. Federal attention. Arson investigators. Homicide detectives. Questions about who had motive to burn down an abandoned orphanage."
I shrug. "And they'll find nothing that points to me.
I have an alibi—security cameras showing I was in my penthouse all night with Leah, who was having a documented medical emergency.
The logistics of traveling to Massachusetts, committing arson and multiple homicides, and returning in under eight hours are prohibitive enough that I won't even be considered a suspect. "
"Unless someone talks," Tristan observes.
"Everyone who could talk is dead," I say simply. "The perpetrators are ash. The witnesses are ash. The building is ash. Even the woman who ran the facility had a convenient stroke this morning. There's no thread to pull."
Landon Ashford enters then, late as usual, looking like he just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Golden Prince. The paragon. The one who projects perfection so thoroughly that people forget to look for the rot underneath.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Traffic."
"Nikolai burned down an orphanage last night," Lucius informs him cheerfully. "Multiple deaths. Federal investigation. The usual."
Landon's perfect smile doesn't waver, but something cold flickers in his teal-blue eyes. "Nikolai. The Board is already nervous about the Carter Morrison incident. Adding arson and homicide to your resume isn't going to help Ardencrest's reputation."
"I don't give a fuck about Ardencrest's reputation," I say pleasantly. "I give a fuck about my butterfly. And anyone who touched her is now dead. That's the beginning and end of my concern."
"Your butterfly is a scholarship student with no connections and no power," Landon says, his tone still perfectly polite.
"The Board sees her as disposable. If they decide she's causing too much trouble—attracting too much attention from law enforcement—they'll find a way to remove her from campus. "
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
"Let me be very clear," I say, my voice still pleasant but with an edge underneath that makes even Evander sit up slightly.
"Leah Harrison is untouchable. Not because the Board says so.
Because I say so. And if anyone on that Board—anyone in this university—anyone in this entire fucking state—tries to harm her or remove her or even inconvenience her, I will be biblical. "
I lean forward slightly.
"I bought their endowment fund. I control their operating budget. I have diplomatic immunity that makes me functionally above American law. And I have resources in Europe that make your families look like middle management."
I look at each of them in turn.
"So let me make this simple: Leah stays. She finishes her degree. She lives in my penthouse. She gets everything she wants. And in return, I'll continue pretending that this university and its Board and its precious reputation matter to me."
"And if we don't agree to those terms?" Evander asks, his steel-blue eyes calculating.
"Then I pull every dollar of de Rivel and Valentini money out of American investments," I say simply.
"Which would cause a minor market correction that would cost your families billions and destroy whatever political capital they've carefully built.
But more importantly, I'd make sure everyone knows it was because Ardencrest University tried to harm a rape survivor that I happen to care about. "
I smile wider.
"The optics on that would be devastating. Your families would spend years trying to recover their reputations. So no, Evander. You don't get to agree or disagree. You get to accept reality: Leah is mine, and I protect what's mine with every resource at my disposal."
Silence settles over the room like ash.
Finally, Lucius breaks it with a low whistle. "Fucking hell. The French kid has teeth."
"We're not your enemies in this," Tristan says quietly from his position by the window. "We're just advising caution. The more attention you draw, the more scrutiny all of us face."
"Then handle it," I tell him. "You're the perception manipulator. Make law enforcement look in the wrong direction. Plant evidence that points away from Ardencrest. Do whatever it is you do."
"I will," Tristan confirms. "But Nikolai—what you did last night wasn't justice. It was a massacre. And massacres have consequences."
"Only if you get caught," I correct. "And I won't. Because I'm very good at this."
Landon stands, adjusting his perfect jacket. "The Board meets next week. I'll make sure they understand that Miss Harrison is to be left entirely alone. But you need to understand something too, Nikolai."
He looks at me with those teal eyes that probably make most people think he's trustworthy.
"We share this campus. We share this social ecosystem. And unlike you, we actually care what happens to Ardencrest after we graduate. So your chaos becomes our problem. And if it becomes too much of a problem, we'll find ways to contain it that don't involve the Board."
"You're welcome to try," I say pleasantly. "But understand that I don't share blood with any of you. I don't share history. I don't share allegiance. You're American princes playing at power. I'm a European heir who was raised in actual violence."
I stand, buttoning my jacket.
"So if you try to contain me, you'll discover very quickly that I'm not contained by threats or social pressure or collegial relationships. I'm only contained by my own objectives. And right now, my objective is keeping Leah safe and happy in my penthouse while she finishes her degree."
I head toward the door, then pause.
"But thank you for the warning about the Board. I'll make sure they understand their position in this hierarchy."
I leave them sitting in their ridiculous underground lounge, probably strategizing about how to manage the chaos I've introduced into their carefully controlled world.
I don't care.
They can strategize all they want. It won't change the fundamental reality: I have more money, more power, more resources, and absolutely no moral constraints preventing me from using all of it to protect what's mine.
The drive back to my penthouse takes seventeen minutes. Long enough for me to make three phone calls.
The first is to Viktor, arranging for additional security around Leah's classes. Nothing obvious—just people positioned to make sure no one approaches her unexpectedly, no one touches her accidentally, no one creates situations that might trigger another panic response.
The second is to my father's legal team, ensuring that if law enforcement does somehow connect me to the St. Catherine's fire, we have lawyers and political pressure ready to make the problem disappear.
The third is to a small, independent publishing house in Vermont that's been struggling financially for the last two years.
"This is Greenwood Press," a woman answers, her voice tired and professional.
"My name is Nikolai de Rivel," I say. "I'm interested in purchasing your company. All assets, all rights, all existing contracts. I'll pay twenty percent above market value and guarantee continued employment for all current staff."
There's a long pause. Then: "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
I repeat it, verbatim. Then add: "I need an answer within three hours. If you accept, I'll have contracts and payment ready by end of business today."
"Can I ask why you want to buy a small publishing house?" she asks, still sounding like she thinks this might be a prank call.
"Personal project," I say. "Do we have a deal?"
Another pause. Then: "Yes. Yes, absolutely. I'll have our lawyer contact you immediately."
"Excellent. You'll receive the contracts within the hour."
I hang up and text Viktor the details. He'll handle the actual paperwork and payment while I focus on the more interesting part of this acquisition.
By the time I return to the penthouse, Leah is awake. I can hear movement from the bedroom—the shower running, the sound of drawers opening and closing as she gets dressed.
I settle at my desk in the study, laptop open, and begin composing a very specific set of instructions for my new publishing house.
The email is long and detailed:
Attached you'll find a list of titles currently published by various romance imprints. I want Greenwood Press to acquire rights to these specific books, or if rights acquisition isn't possible, to commission similar works from freelance authors.
Key requirements: - Male protagonists must be described as: French or French-speaking, extremely wealthy, cold/calculating toward most people but intensely protective toward the female lead, possessive but respectful of explicitly stated boundaries - Settings should include: modern cities, penthouse apartments, university settings, situations where the male protagonist has significant power/resources - Tropes should emphasize: "he fell first and harder," obsessive devotion, "touch her and die," the male protagonist being willing to commit violence to protect the female lead
I want the alterations to be subtle. Not overt rewrites that would seem inauthentic. Just careful shifts in description, background details, character traits. The stories themselves should remain intact.
Timeline: I need the first batch of revised titles ready for printing within two weeks. Hardcover editions, premium quality. Cost is not a concern.
Deliver the finished books directly to the address I've provided. Do not include any publisher information or branding that would indicate these are special editions. They should appear to be standard commercial releases.
I attach Leah's favorite titles—the ones I've observed her reading and rereading, the ones she clutches to her chest like they're precious, the ones she escapes into when reality becomes too much.
And I'm going to make those escapes mirror me.
Every dark, protective, possessive male lead will have my traits. My background. My pattern of behavior.
So when she's reading her romance novels—her safe space, her private fantasy world—she'll be conditioning herself to associate those traits with desirable romance.
She'll be training her own mind to crave exactly what I am.
It's psychological manipulation on a level that would probably concern anyone with a conscience.
I don't have a conscience.
I have objectives. And my current objective is making Leah not just accept my possession of her, but crave it on every level—physical, emotional, and mental.
The books are the mental component.
By 2 PM, Greenwood Press has confirmed receipt of my instructions and promised the first batch of revised titles within ten days, potentially sooner.
Perfect.
Now I just need to wait for the delivery, present them to Leah as a thoughtful gift, and watch as she unknowingly trains herself to want me.
Leah emerges from the bedroom around 3 PM, wearing one of the cashmere cardigans and looking significantly more rested than she did yesterday. Her eyes find me immediately, and something in her expression has changed.
Not fear. Not wariness.
Something softer. Something that might be trust or might just be resignation to her situation.
Either way, it's progress.
Her hands move: Are you going somewhere?
"I have a few errands," I tell her. "But first, I need to know—what would you like for dinner?"
She blinks, clearly surprised by the question. Like she's not used to being asked what she wants.
"Anything," I clarify. "Any restaurant in the city. Any type of food. Whatever sounds good."
Her hands move slowly, hesitantly: You don't have to do that.
"I want to," I correct. "You had a difficult day yesterday. You deserve something that makes you happy."
She considers this, her gray-blue eyes studying my face like she's trying to determine if this is some kind of test.
Finally, her hands move: Italian? If that's okay?
"Italian is perfect," I confirm. "I'll have it delivered tonight."
I stand, collecting my jacket and phone. "Will you be alright here alone for a few hours?"
She nods, though something uncertain flickers across her face.
"The guards outside won't enter unless you press the panic button by the door," I assure her. "And I'll have my phone. If you need anything—anything at all—text me."
Another nod.
I cross to where she's standing, maintaining careful distance. "There are books in the library, food in the kitchen, anything you could want for entertainment. Make yourself comfortable. This is your home now."
Your home. The possessive pronoun is deliberate. She's not staying here temporarily. She's not a guest. This is where she belongs now.
Her eyes flicker with something that might be acknowledgment or might be the beginning of acceptance.
Good.
I leave the penthouse, making sure the door locks securely behind me. The guards nod as I pass, and I give them the same instruction I've given them every day: "Miss Harrison is not to be disturbed unless she initiates contact. Anyone who violates that directive will answer to me personally."
They nod, having learned what "answer to me personally" means after I hospitalized the guard who accidentally touched her.
The next few hours are spent handling the logistics of my various operations. Meeting with Viktor to discuss ongoing security arrangements. Authorizing payment for the publishing house acquisition. Reviewing the legal team's strategy for potential law enforcement questions about St. Catherine's.
All of it efficient. All of it necessary. All of it boring compared to the project waiting for me back at the penthouse.
By 7 PM, I'm returning with Italian food from the most expensive restaurant in the city—the kind of place that doesn't deliver for anyone except people who tip in thousands.
Leah is in the living room when I arrive, curled up on the sofa with one of the books from my collection. She looks up when I enter, and there's something in her expression that might be relief.
Like she's glad I came back.
Like the hours alone made her realize she prefers my presence to my absence.
Exactly as planned.
We eat dinner together, the same comfortable silence that's been developing over the past week. She's eating more than she used to—no longer picking at food like she's afraid it might disappear. No longer looking guilty for enjoying something expensive.
She's adapting to this life. Learning that she doesn't have to survive on scraps anymore. That I will provide for her without hesitation or expectation of immediate return.
After dinner, I clean up while she returns to the sofa. When I join her, carrying my own book, she doesn't move away. Doesn't create distance.
Just stays where she is, comfortable in my proximity.
We read in silence for two hours. Her with her romance novel—something about a damaged man and the woman who sees past his trauma. Me with a financial analysis that would put most people to sleep but provides useful information about market trends.
At 10 PM, she starts showing signs of tiredness. Yawning. Eyelids drooping. The book gradually lowering as her attention wanes.
"Bed," I say gently.
She doesn't argue. Just stands, stretches, and heads toward the bedroom with me following behind.
We go through our evening routines—she in the bathroom, me changing into sleep clothes in the closet. When she emerges in her oversized sleep shirt and shorts, I'm already in bed. Above the covers like last night, fully clothed, maintaining that careful distance.
She climbs in on her side, pulls the blankets up, and turns to face me.
Her hand moves in a simple gesture: Thank you. For dinner. For everything.
"You don't need to thank me for taking care of what's mine," I tell her.
The possessive should probably bother her. Should probably make her stiffen or pull away.
Instead, she just nods slowly and closes her eyes.
I wait until her breathing evens out. Until I'm certain she's truly asleep.
Then I begin the whispers that have been slowly, methodically rewiring her subconscious to need me.
"Tu es exactement où tu dois être, papillon. Dans mon lit. Dans mon espace. Dans ma vie." You are exactly where you need to be, butterfly. In my bed. In my space. In my life.
She shifts slightly, moving closer to the sound of my voice.
"Tu es en sécurité uniquement ici. Le monde extérieur est dangereux. Mais ici, avec moi, rien ne peut t'atteindre." You are safe only here. The outside world is dangerous. But here, with me, nothing can reach you.
Her hand moves across the space between us, searching for something in her sleep.
I let her find my chest. Let her palm settle over my heart.
"Tu m'appartiens maintenant. Corps, esprit, et ame. Et je ne te laisserai jamais partir." You belong to me now. Body, mind, and soul. And I will never let you go.
She sighs, a soft sound of contentment, and burrows closer.
By 2 AM, she's practically on top of me, her face pressed into the crook of my neck, her leg thrown across mine, her arm wrapped around my torso.
I lie there, holding perfectly still, feeling the phantom weight of her trust.
This is what victory looks like.
Not conquest. Not domination through force.
Voluntary surrender.
She crawled into my bed. She sought my proximity. She's conditioning herself to need me without even realizing it's happening.
And in ten days, when I present her with those revised books—those romance novels where every male lead mirrors me exactly—she'll take the final step.
She'll stop fighting what she already wants.
She'll accept that the monster who burned down her nightmares is exactly what she's been reading about all along.
The obsessive protector. The possessive lover. The man who would destroy the world to keep her safe.
Me.
I don't sleep. Don't even close my eyes.
I just lie there in the dark, feeling Leah's heartbeat against my side, and plan the next phases of her complete psychological integration.
Because I'm patient. And thorough. And absolutely committed to making her not just stay with me out of necessity, but crave me with the same desperate intensity that normal people call love.
She'll never know the difference.
And by the time she might suspect something isn't quite right, she'll be too deep to care.
My butterfly.
My possession.
Mine.