29. Clarissa
CLARISSA
T hree weeks since I watched a man die, and I’m expected to smile at a board meeting.
The past few days have blurred into silence and uncertainty.
After éclipse, I locked myself away, the world fading from color to gray.
The nightmare of Alexei’s transformation haunted me—his glowing eyes, bared fangs, and the memory of his death weighed on me.
Each moment seemed like I was drowning in gunshots, blood, and fear.
I compelled myself through the routine—showering, dressing, eating—but all was amiss. The world moved on without me, indifferent to my grief. I couldn’t face Samara or anyone, not yet. Two missed calls from Kaisner sat on my phone like accusations I wasn’t ready to answer.
No word of Alexis’ death has reached the Ursa or Morozov families.
The story circulating is that he went into hiding after a fall-out with the Regalis clan, a convenient lie that keeps everyone in the dark.
The result of Kaisner’s careful machinations.
I’ve done my best to distance myself from him ever since that night, but the memories linger, unwelcome and unresolved.
Even so, here I am, back at work, trying to move forward. The fear still clings, but I can’t stay locked away forever.
The familiar scent of oil paint and polished wood wraps around me as I step into the Lumière Art Gallery. It’s been too long since I last set foot here. I told everyone I’d been under the weather—a story that concealed the sleepless nights, the lingering fear that clawed at my thoughts.
As I move toward my office, warm smiles and murmurs of relief greet me. “Welcome back, Miss Draken,” my colleagues say, their voices carrying both concern and excitement. “We have good news to share.”
Their enthusiasm is infectious, stirring a sensation inside me—a flicker of the person I used to be.
Maybe this is exactly what I need. To immerse myself in art and creation, to build something meaningful amidst the wreckage of my personal life.
With a smile that feels only slightly forced, I follow them into the meeting room, bracing myself for whatever developments have unfolded in my absence.
As I settle at the head of the long, polished table, my gaze sweeps over the familiar faces before me.
A swell of pride rises in my chest. We’ve poured everything into the upcoming exhibition—securing funding, curating the perfect collection, designing an experience worthy of the Lumière name.
And now, with the final details falling into place, I allow myself a rare moment of satisfaction.
I sink into my chair, but my thoughts drift elsewhere. To Nik.
He’s been gone for over a month. His last message mentioned his tour through Western Europe and the Mediterranean, securing support where he could.
But Germany and Eastern Europe—especially with Kaisner at their helm—remains a question mark.
Those clans have the power to make or break Nik’s bid for Dragon King.
I’m proud of him, of course, but worry gnaws at me. The supernatural world is treacherous, its politics a tangled web of power and deception. And Nik stands at the center of it.
The meeting progresses, and I notice a shift in the room.
The standard business professionalism is laced with something else—excitement, barely contained.
Amélie keeps sneaking glances at Luc, her eyes bright with a secret.
Sophie fidgets with her pen, a knowing smile pulling at her lips.
Even Jean-Pierre, always the picture of restraint, drums his fingers on the mahogany table, his usual stoicism fading.
I lean back in my chair, arching an eyebrow at their behavior. “All right,” I say, amusement slipping into my voice. “What are you all hiding?”
Luc clears his throat, adjusting the lapels of his impeccably tailored suit. With deliberate precision, he moves to the front of the room. A large screen dominates the wall. With a click of a remote, it flickers to life.
“Miss Draken,” he begins, his voice laced with anticipation, “while you were away, we had a... development. One that’s going to change everything for our upcoming gala.”
The screen floods with images—priceless artworks, rare sculptures, masterpieces I’ve only ever glimpsed in the most exclusive catalogs. My breath catches. It’s the private collection we’ve been chasing for months. The one we thought was out of reach.
Amélie springs from her seat, her hands clapping together in excitement. “We did it, Clarissa! The reclusive collector finally agreed!”
I lean forward, fingers curling around the edge of the table. “How?” My voice is steady, but my mind races. “How did you manage that?”
Luc’s grin widens as he clicks to the next slide, revealing a series of email exchanges. “That’s the most incredible part. We were ready to walk away, admit defeat. But then...” He lets the suspense linger, his gaze sweeping the room. “He reached out to us. Personally.”
A collective gasp ripples through the team. Sophie leans in, her voice hushed. “It’s like he knew exactly what we needed. He set his terms, made his offer. It’s... unprecedented.”
A rush of conflicting emotions floods me—exhilaration, suspicion, something undefinable. “This is remarkable,” I manage, schooling my voice into excitement. “And unexpected.” I hesitate, then ask the only question that matters. “And who is this mysterious benefactor? Do we finally have a name?”
The room stills. Luc clicks to the final slide. A name flashes across the screen, bold and unmistakable. My stomach clenches.
“ Freiherr Kaisner Drachenstein,” Luc announces, his voice ringing through the silence.
I grip the arms of my chair, steadying myself against the sudden shock. Kaisner Drachenstein. The man who’s haunted my thoughts, my dreams. The one whose touch set my skin ablaze, whose kiss stole my breath.
Heat prickles in my nape, but I force my expression into one of polite curiosity. Conversation erupts—speculation, theories, whispers of intrigue. My colleagues are enthralled, swept up in the mystery of the enigmatic benefactor.
But I know better. Kaisner never does anything without purpose. And if he’s involved, it means my carefully reconstructed world is about to be upended once again.
I’m only half-listening, my mind consumed by memories. The way his eyes locked onto mine across the crowded dance floor, the crackling electricity between us, the heat of his hands on my skin. The taste of his lips.
“I still can’t believe he agreed,” Amélie gushes, snapping me back to the present. “Some of those pieces haven’t been seen in public for decades!”
A drawer slams shut. I flinch, pulse spiking. The sound ricochets through me like an echo of that night at éclipse. Weeks have passed, yet the memories cling to me—sharp, unrelenting.
“We’ve been asking for ages, and his offices always refused. I wonder what changed,” Luc muses. Then, grinning, “And he’s donating a never-before-seen Kandinsky sketch to the Lumière Foundation. That alone will have donors scrambling to get in.”
Their voices rise in a chorus of praise and speculation, but I only catch fragments.
“A Freiherr , no less,” Sophie adds with reverence. “German nobility. That explains the old-world elegance and the vast collections.”
“I hear he’s single,” someone whispers. “Can you imagine capturing his heart?”
“Single or not, he’s a mystery,” Amèlie chimes in conspiratorially. “No one really knows much about him. It’s like he materialized out of thin air.”
“Well, I hear he’s gorgeous,” Camille giggles, fanning herself with a stack of notes. “Tall, dark, and dangerous.”
Heat flares at the back of my neck. Kaisner’s piercing gaze flashes through my mind, the ghost of his touch reigniting a spark I thought I’d extinguished. I shift in my seat, willing the memory away. But it lingers, a whisper against my skin.
“We should focus on the exhibition,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Not idle gossip.”
But even as the words leave my lips, they ring hollow. Because deep down, I know the truth. I’m just as fixated on Kaisner Drachenstein as they are. Perhaps even more.
“Of course, Miss Draken,” Amélie says, subdued. “We’re just excited. It’s not every day we work with someone of his caliber.”
I force a smile. “I understand. But let’s keep things professional. We have a lot to prepare.”
The conversation shifts back to logistics, but my thoughts remain tangled. Kaisner Drachenstein. After weeks of silence, he’s shattered my fragile detachment with one grand gesture.
When the meeting concludes, I retreat to my office. I exhale slowly, willing my pulse to steady. But the sense of unease lingers—an instinct whispering that something is off, that I’m missing a vital piece of the puzzle.
Drawn by impulse, I move toward the filing cabinet, my fingers deftly flipping through the folders until I find what I’m looking for—the contract for the Drachenstein exhibition, signed with a flourish by Kaisner himself.
I trace the bold slant of his signature, a slow sweep of my fingertip. “Who are you really, Kaisner Drachenstein?” I murmur.
Before I can second-guess myself, I settle into the plush leather chair behind my desk, my fingers flying over the keyboard.
I pull up every scrap of information I can find—articles, press releases, financial reports.
But the more I search, the more I realize: I’m only scratching the surface.
There are layers to him, depths concealed beneath carefully curated facades.
My mind drifts back to that night at éclipse, to the words Kaisner whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“When you’re ready to accept all of me—the light and the dark—then I will make you mine. Fully. Completely. Irrevocably.”
A shiver dances down my spine, anticipation curling in my stomach.
What does it mean to accept all of him? To embrace not only the polished exterior he presents to the world but also the shadows lurking beneath? Can I truly give myself over to a man I barely know, whose motives remain a mystery?
The questions swirl in my mind, a dizzying storm of doubt and desire. But even as I wrestle with uncertainty, I can’t deny the truth. The enigma that is Kaisner Drachenstein calls to me, an unsolved mystery I can’t resist unraveling.
With a sudden burst of determination, I reach for the phone. My fingers dial the number for our offices in Germany almost on sheer instinct.
As the phone rings, I settle into my chair, gaze drifting toward the large window overlooking the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The city moves below in elegant chaos, but my focus narrows.
On the opposite sidewalk, a figure lingers.
Recognition jolts through me. I saw him last night, a shadow at the edges of my world. And now, here he is again. Watching. Waiting.
A chill coils around my spine.
The line clicks, and a crisp voice cuts through my thoughts. “Lumière Foundation, German branch. How may I assist you?”
I take a steadying breath. “This is Clarissa Draken,” I say, determined. “I need you to pull up everything you can on Kaisner Drachenstein. Business dealings, personal history—everything. Leave no stone unturned.”
A pause. Then, the voice returns, tinged with something unreadable. “Understood, Miss Draken. We’ll begin immediately. Expect a report by the end of the day.”
I murmur my thanks and hang up.
The hours slip by in a blur of meetings and phone calls, juggling contracts, logistics, and endless emails. Yet, no matter how much I try to focus, my thoughts keep circling back to Kaisner—the elusive art collector whose sudden generosity has upended my carefully structured world.
Just as I’m about to call it a day, my phone buzzes. A notification flashes across the screen, making my breath hitch.
Dossier: Freiherr Kaisner Drachenstein
My fingers tremble as I open the file, scanning the pages of information the German team has compiled.
Business dealings. Holdings. Philanthropic efforts.
And beneath the surface—whispers of something darker.
His rumored connections to the shadowy underworld of art and antiquities.
Traces of power plays that never made the headlines. And...
I blink, snapping my gaze away from the screen.
Everything there is to know about this man is right here.
Everything.
A slow, unsteady breath leaves my lips as I recline in my chair, eyes drifting toward the window. Outside, the city hums with life, a familiar rhythm of dusk settling over Paris. But beyond the blur of pedestrians and evening lights, a figure stands motionless on the opposite sidewalk.
A jolt of recognition courses through me.
He’s still there.
The same man I spotted last night—half-hidden in the shadows, watching. Now, under the golden haze of the setting sun, his presence is clearer, yet no less unnerving. His posture is casual, almost nonchalant, but there’s a sharpness to him. A readiness.
A silent shadow, always a step behind me.
With a slow inhale, I power down my computer, the screen going dark. My reflection stares back at me—composed, unreadable. But inside, something restless stirs.
“I don’t know who you are,” I murmur under my breath, slipping my phone into my bag. “But I’m going to find out.”
Jaw set, I gather my belongings, straighten my shoulders, and prepare to step into the night—into whatever awaits me beyond these doors.