35. Clarissa #2
The evening passes in a blur of champagne, delicate hors d’oeuvres, and endless small talk. The din of conversation, clinking glassware, and whispered gossip fill the air. Beneath it all, the electric apprehension of the night’s climax thrums.
At precisely 11 PM, I make my way to the center of the room. My heart hammers with excitement and nerves.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce, voice cutting through the hum. “The silent auction for the Kandinsky sketch is now closed.”
A ripple moves through the crowd, murmurs of excitement swelling. Our event coordinator presents the sealed bid box. I open it, drawing out the winning bid, the silence thickening.
“I’m thrilled to announce the Kandinsky sketch has been sold for an astounding €2.
5 million.” Gasps ripple through the audience, followed by applause.
“The winning bidder is Monsieur Jean-Pierre Beaumont. Monsieur Beaumont, your generosity will make an incredible impact on our ’Art for All’ initiative. Merci beaucoup.”
The room erupts into an outstanding ovation as Jean-Pierre steps forward, beaming. Triumph surges through me as I shake his hand and pose for photographs. The gala is a success.
With the main event concluded, guests begin to filter out, their conversations bubbling with excitement. The air is lighter now, filled with laughter and satisfaction. I make my rounds, thanking everyone for their attendance, my cheeks aching from the constant smile.
By the time the last guest drifts out and the cleaning crew begins their quiet sweep of the room, I finally allow myself to exhale.
I step onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing against my flushed skin. The Eiffel Tower glitters in the distance, its iron frame glowing like a constellation brought down to earth. I press my hands to the railing, breathing deeply, allowing the stillness to seep into me.
And then a voice, low and husky, shatters the quiet.
“Quite an event, Miss Draken.”
I whirl around, heart stuttering. Kaisner stands in the doorway, tall and shadowed, framed by the soft amber light spilling from the hall. His eyes catch the faint glow of the city, dark and hungry. The kind of gaze that doesn’t just see—it devours .
“Mr. Drachenstein,” I manage, firm despite the thundering of my heart. “I hope you enjoyed the evening.”
His lips curl into a slow, predatory smile that sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Oh, I enjoyed it… immensely,” he purrs. “Though I must say, the company left something to be desired.”
I raise an eyebrow, masking the tremor in my chest. “Oh? I was under the impression you were quite popular tonight. You were surrounded by admirers at all times.”
He steps closer, the night wrapping around him like silk. The glow of the Eiffel Tower frames him in gold, turning him into something otherworldly. Dangerous. Untouchable.
“Admirers of art, perhaps,” he says, his voice a dark caress. “But there was only one person whose company I truly desired.”
His hand lifts, fingers brushing the line of my cheek. His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch so light it feels like fire. I gasp, the sound soft, helpless.
“Kaisner,” I breathe, eyes fluttering shut, “we can’t. Not here.”
“I know,” he whispers, the words hot against the shell of my ear. “But soon, my love. Soon, we won’t have to hide.”
Before I can respond, his lips crash onto mine, stealing my breath, stealing my reason. The kiss is brief but searing, leaving me stunned and aching for more.
And then he’s gone—slipping back inside as if nothing had happened.
I lean against the balcony railing, my pulse throbbing wildly. The metal is cool beneath my fingertips, a harsh contrast to the heat Kaisner left behind. Fire races through my veins, my mind spins.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I fumble it from my clutch, my breath catching at the name on the screen.
“Nik?” I answer, fighting to steady myself as Kaisner’s kiss still burns on my lips.
“Rissy,” he says, and his voice—sharp, clipped—slices through me like a blade. “I’m in Berlin and… I’ve just received some... interesting news.”
My heart stutters. “What is it?”
“Kaisner Drachenstein,” Nik spits the name like a curse.
“Not only has he officially refused to recognize my claim as Dragon King, but in the same breath, he’s positioned himself as our foundation’s most influential benefactor—backing your gala tonight and signing a major exhibition contract for his entire collection.
Tell me, sister, what game is he playing? ”
I grip the phone tighter, fingers aching. “Nik, I?—”
“And don’t tell me you didn’t know,” he bites, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You’ve been working closely with him on this gala, haven’t you? What else haven’t you told me?”
“Nik, I didn’t plan for this?—”
“Whose fucking side are you on, Clarissa?” he explodes.
My mind reels, fumbling for words. “It’s not like that. The gala was a success. His contribution was?—”
“Was what? A peace offering? A distraction?” His voice hardens. “Do you know how this looks? The timing is too convenient. He’s up to something, and I fear you’re being used as a pawn in his game.”
The accusation stings. “What would you have me do?”
“ Stay away from him.” The command is iron.
“Kaisner Drachenstein is dangerous. His refusal to acknowledge me as Dragon King has set most European clans against me.” His voice rises through the phone, fury bleeding through.
“They’d rather bow to a fucking mobster—a criminal —than a real dragon.
Can you believe that shit? They choose his dirty money and shadowy deals over true draconic power.
” I hear something crash in the background, followed by his sharp intake of breath.
“Don’t let that bastard use you, Clarissa. ”
I close my eyes, torn between blood and heart. “I understand, Nik. I’ll... I’ll be careful.”
The call ends, but the words linger, sharp and heavy. The balance I’ve tried to maintain—between loyalty and desire, family and love—cracks beneath the pressures of this evening.
A low rumble of thunder echoes in the distance. I lift my gaze. Dark clouds gather, swallowing the stars. The wind picks up, sharp and cool, tugging at my gown, stripping away the facade I’ve maintained.
It feels like a warning.
I close my eyes, leaning into the breeze, wishing it could take the doubt, the fear, the ache left by Kaisner’s touch.
But the wind offers no mercy.
The gala is over. The mask is slipping. And the real storm is just beginning.