35. Clarissa
CLARISSA
T he most dangerous predators wear designer gowns and offer polite conversation.
The building hums with anticipation, a living entity of barely contained energy.
I stand just offstage, veiled behind heavy velvet curtains, heart thrumming in my chest. Each pulse is a reminder of my lineage, my responsibility, my danger.
I inhale deeply, the air thick with the scent of gardenias and roses, mingling with the cloying sweetness of expensive perfumes and something more primal. The kind of aroma that lingers when too many immortals occupy the same room.
“Mademoiselle Draken?” A soft voice, hesitant, pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to find an event coordinator, clipboard pressed to her chest. She’s young, human, blissfully unaware of the politics swirling beneath the glamour of this night. “It’s time.”
I nod, smoothing my gown. The silver beadwork glimmers like stars. The high slit along my thigh teases with every step. I touch the dragon necklace at my throat—a silent tether to the truth that lies beneath the veneer of this soirée. Him. Kaisner.
I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. I am Clarissa Draken, heir to a legacy older than this city’s stones. A woman with fire in her blood and shadows at her heels. I will not falter.
The moment I step onto the stage, the world sharpens.
Light floods my vision, momentarily blinding me, but I focus as the crowd materializes.
Faces gleam beneath chandeliers, laughter hanging in the air, glasses poised to toast. Supernaturals woven among mortals, masks in place.
Vampires shimmer under the lights, their beauty unnatural.
Shifters lounge with casual elegance, danger cloaked in tailored suits and velvet gowns.
Witches wear power like silk, radiating energy beyond their charms.
And there, at the back of the room, he waits. Kaisner.
Even at a distance, his presence is undeniable. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and a jolt of electricity courses through me. His gaze is intense, a heat that makes my cheeks flush. I force myself to look away, focusing on the task at hand.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, voice steady, though my pulse hammers hard. “Welcome to ’Lumière’s d’Espoir’—the inaugural Galerie Lumière’s Annual Gala and Charity Auction.”
The room hushes, high expectations pressing down on me, but I stand firm.
“We gather not just to celebrate art’s beauty, but its ability to change lives. Every brushstroke, every sculpture, carries meaning. Tonight, we add a new chapter to those stories.”
The words come easier this time, practiced, poised. I sweep my gaze across the crowd, careful not to linger on Kaisner. I will not be distracted.
“We’re honored by the generosity of Mr. Kaisner Drachenstein.
” I pause. Applause erupts, reverberating through the hall.
“Not only has he lent us his private collection for this exhibition, but he’s also donated a rare Kandinsky sketch for tonight’s auction.
All proceeds will benefit the Lumière Foundation’s outreach programs.”
A ripple of excitement. Murmured approval.
I push forward. “This piece, along with others in tonight’s main event, supports our ’Art sans Frontières’ initiative—providing resources, education, and opportunities for underprivileged artists across Paris and beyond.”
I pause, letting the words settle over them. “Because art knows no boundary, no class, no bloodline. It is universal. As it should be.”
Another beat. A quiet nod to those who understand the deeper meaning.
“Please, enjoy the exhibition, indulge in our culinary delights, and above all, open your hearts—and your wallets—for a cause that will change lives. Thank you, and have a wonderful evening.”
Applause swells, bright and warm, but beneath it, I sense the layers of understanding.
Some clap for the art, others for the cause.
But there are those—like Kaisner—who hear the message beneath my words.
The fight for legacy. The battle against bloodlines and curses.
The struggle to claim freedom within a world bound by ancient rules.
As I step off the stage, the orchestra’s music begins, soft and lilting, like a dream spun in silver.
I glide through the crowd, fielding compliments and greetings with practiced ease. The Grand Palais has been transformed, exhibition spaces cleared to make room for round tables draped in white linen, lavish centerpieces of orchids and cut crystal.
My smile is gracious, my posture perfect, though my pulse races with every stolen glance in Kaisner’s direction. His gaze lingers, burning beneath the civilized exterior.
A group of art enthusiasts surrounds him. He gestures coolly while discussing pieces from his collection. Even from this distance, I see the passion in his eyes, the effortless command of attention.
Then, Amélie approaches.
“Channel 24 wants an interview,” she murmurs, low and urgent. “You’re radiant tonight, Clarissa. They’ll be eating out of your palm.”
I nod, even as my heart tugs toward the shadowed corner where Kaisner leans, half-devoured by light. Watching me. Always watching.
“Of course. Lead the way.”
The interview is a blur. Words flow—about art, unity, legacy. About Kaisner’s collection being a beacon of generosity. I say all the right things, smile all the right ways, but beneath it all, my skin burns with memory. His hands. His mouth. The dangerous temptation between us.
When the interview ends, I rise, smoothing my gown. The reporter stands, extending her hand.
With a final nod, I turn away, signaling to staff to escort the crew to their dinner table. Weaving through the crowd, I catch sight of Cassandra and Gavriil waiting nearby. They’ve clearly been watching. Approval and perhaps concern flicker in Cassandra’s eyes.
“Clarissa, darling,” she greets warmly, pulling me into a gentle hug. The soft glow of pregnancy illuminates her, lending her an almost ethereal beauty. “You were magnificent. Truly, you’ve outdone yourself.”
I return the embrace. “Oh, Cassie. I’m so glad you could make it.”
As we part, I find myself face to face with Gavriil. The Ursa King towers over both Cassandra and me, his presence commanding even in this glittering horde. His maroon eyes, sharp and assessing, seem to look right through me.
Gavriil nods, a slight gesture that conveys approval and authority. “You’ve made quite a mark in your brother’s absence.”
His words, though complimentary, make me straighten my spine.
I’m acutely aware of the eyes on us, the supernatural community watching with keen interest. To them, Cassandra and Gavriil are the perfect couple—the mighty Ursa King and the Deveraux heiress.
Strength and beauty. A match made by the gods.
Here, under the glittering lights, they play their parts to perfection. But the reality of it all is less than appealing. I only hope they get through this gala unscathed.
“I’m merely continuing the work my brother started,” I reply, voice steady despite the fluttering nerves.
Gavriil’s lips quirk in what might be a smile. “Modesty becomes you, Miss Draken,” he says, gruff. “But do not underestimate your own accomplishments. This event...” he gestures around the room, “is solid proof of your capabilities.”
Any words I might have said die on my tongue. Juliette sweeps in like a force of nature, her emerald gown shimmering under the lights. “Clarissa, my dear!” she exclaims, pulling me into a warm embrace. “Oh, what a triumph! You’ve truly outdone yourself.”
I return her hug, tension melting in her calming presence. “I couldn’t have done it without your guidance,” I reply, smiling. “Your venue suggestion was wonderful!”
Ivan stands slightly apart, dark green eyes surveying the room, radiating boredom and disdain. He nods at me, a barely perceptible tilt of his head that I return.
Suddenly, Juliette’s phone chimes. She glances at it, brow furrowing.
“Oh dear, I’m needed elsewhere.” Looking up, she adds, “Clarissa, darling, would you mind keeping Ivan company for a moment? I have him on a tight leash, making sure he stays out of trouble tonight.” She casts him a playful glance. “He has a talent for finding it.”
Before I can protest, she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd with a swirl of emerald silk. I’m left there alone.
Alone with Ivan Lockhart.
His gaze is sharp as glass, his smirk lethal in its precision.
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t think invitations were your style—you seem to favor slipping in unannounced ,” I say, voice low but firm.
Ivan raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“The conservatory at Draken Manor,” I clarify, meeting his gaze steadily. “You broke into my home?”
For a moment, something flashes in his eyes—surprise? Amusement? But it’s gone so quickly, I can’t be sure.
“My dearest Miss Draken,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.
” The vampire pauses, sharp stare raking my face, analyzing my expression.
“I’ve no reason to call upon anyone in Draken Manor.
May I remind you, my quarrel with your family goes back centuries.
And one never lets go of such... beef , as they say these days.
Not when it’s the kind from which legends are born. ”
He smiles, a flash of fang. “You see, my vanity—not my pride—would never allow it. One must live up to one’s infamy, after all.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I’m swept away by another group eager to congratulate me. Ivan watches, dark amusement lighting his green eyes.
As I move through the crowd, I can’t shake the unease his words leave behind. I’m sure it was him in the conservatory— I saw him with my own eyes. But if indeed it was not the vampire Lockhart who spoke to me in the garden… then who did?