Their eyes weren't on me anymore. Good.
Because when the time came—when the dormant power inside me stirred and finally awakened—I didn't want them to see it. I didn't want them to notice or interfere. I wouldn't allow them to exploit my abilities, not like the court did when I was Anna Valentine, not like my former father, the King, who turned my talents into tools for his empire before betraying me for a bastard and a mistress.
This time, I'd awaken in silence. Hidden. Unused. Free.
Yet, for all this evolution, for all the growth and the small seedlings of love I'd allowed to sprout within the closed circle of my bloodline, I still found myself emotionally barren toward everyone outside of it. It wasn't just coldness—it was emptiness. A complete inability to feel... anything. Strangers, teachers, friends of the family, pedestrians on the street, even other children—none of them moved the needle.
Accidents, injuries, even news of death—I didn't flinch. No sorrow. No empathy. No disgust. Just... detachment. And I hated it.
I tried to fight it. I meditated, journaled, analyzed myself, practiced visualizations of care and connection. I forced myself to mimic emotional responses, hoping the performance would eventually summon the real thing. But it never came. The detachment remained, like an icy mist sealed behind my ribs, always just there. It made me feel like him. Like the man who called himself my father in the Thorian Realm. A man of cruelty masked in poise, of ambition dressed as love. A man whose coldness had infected the very soul I now carried.
Was I becoming him?
I thought the answer was yes—until ten days ago.
We had traveled to Saint Moritz, a glittering alpine town nestled in the snowy peaks of Switzerland, to spend the end of 2036 and the beginning of 2037 skiing, attending lavish dinners, and playing family among our parents' high-society friends. I expected nothing more than icy manners, empty conversations, and an avalanche of boredom.
Instead, I met him.
Mikhail Salvatore Bellucci Koshkin.
From the moment he entered the room, something in me reacted. Viscerally. Uncontrollably.
It was instant.
A visceral, gut-twisting, irrational loathing. The kind of disgust that coils in your stomach and claws its way up your throat until you're certain you'll be sick. I had never—not even once—in my entire existence, felt such pure and immediate hatred for another living soul. Not even during my life as Anna Valentine, surrounded by vipers in royal silks, had I ever encountered someone who ignited such overwhelming revulsion within me.
And yet, the moment my eyes landed on him, I wanted to recoil. Every instinct, every ounce of mana humming beneath my skin, every fragment of memory embedded in my soul—screamed that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
His name is Mikhail Salvatore Bellucci Koshkin.
Born on June 8th, 2026, making him three and a half years older than me. His parents, Bianca Bellucci and Alexei Koshkin, were friends of my parents from their university days. Close friends, actually. Alexei had been Father's childhood best friend, and they'd both married around the same time. Their bond extended into adulthood, and it seems they always dreamed of raising their children side-by-side—entangled by friendship, maybe even love, if fate allowed.
Fate, however, had other plans.
Like me, Salvatore is the eldest child in his family. And yes, I'm calling him Salvatore precisely because he despises his middle name. The petty satisfaction I get from it is the only joy I find in his presence.
He has two younger siblings: a boy and a girl. The boy, Dimitri Franco, was born just five days before my siblings, the twins. The girl, Sasha Vittoria, arrived exactly a month after Dong-Dong—still a baby, still pure. The timeline feels eerily deliberate, almost orchestrated. Like life was stitching our destinies too closely for comfort.
Dimitri and the twins bonded effortlessly. The three of them seemed to exist in the same chaotic wavelength—sharing toys, babbling in strange hybrid languages, and orchestrating tiny revolutions in the hallways of the villa. Even Dong-Dong and Sasha appear drawn to one another, their synchronized cries and laughter hinting at a strange chemistry that transcends infancy.
But me and Salvatore? We were a disaster from the first breath.
To his credit, he tried. He approached with a smile, composed and polite, clearly raised in a household where decorum and charm were currency. His tone was courteous. His posture impeccable. But I couldn't match it. I physically couldn't.
Because the moment he spoke to me, something inside me shrank—recoiled like a flame from poison. I glared at him, unable to mask my revulsion. My lips curled before I could stop them. My eyes narrowed, my fingers clenched. I scowled at him like he was the thing that had killed me in another life. Maybe he had. Maybe something deep within me remembered.
I don't know if he was hurt by it or if he sensed the same venomous familiarity, but the shift in him was immediate. His expression turned cold. His eyebrows knit together in a glare that matched mine in intensity. For a moment, we were just two children standing in an elegant room, surrounded by polished marble and alpine views, staring at each other like mortal enemies.
And yet—no one noticed.
Our parents, caught in their nostalgia, missed the sparks flying across the space between us. The grandparents, basking in the joy of holiday reunions, saw only harmony. They mistook our silence for shyness. Or respect. Or chemistry. How wrong they were.
These last few days in this villa—his family's estate nestled in the snowy mountains of Saint Moritz—have been nothing short of a nightmare. The rooms are too quiet, the furniture too cold. Everything reeks of their legacy. Their wealth. Their presence. His presence.
This is his home. Which makes me a guest. An outsider.
Or worse... an infiltrator. A spy who's wandered too far into enemy territory without realizing how dangerous it might be.
There's something else too. Something I haven't said aloud, not even to myself. Not fully. Because while everything in me detests him, while every nerve rebels in his presence, there's something underneath the hatred. A familiarity. A tension that doesn't belong in a first meeting.
What if this isn't our first meeting?
What if this isn't the first time we've stared at each other like this?
I need to find out.
Because if he is what I fear... if he's tied to my past in a way I've yet to understand...
Then this hatred might not be irrational at all.
It might be history. Coming back for vengeance.