Nia's frustration was nearing its breaking point. Every interaction with Lucien left her feeling off-balance—his words too precise, too cold, too perfectly timed. She didn't know what irritated her more: his unreadable demeanor or the way he always seemed ten steps ahead.
Storming out of the conference room, she clutched a stack of papers to her chest, her fingers digging into the edges as her thoughts churned. The hallway stretched before her, lined with expensive artwork that she barely registered through her haze of anger.
"Why is he always like this? Cold. Detached. Arrogantly perfect."
She hated the way he spoke to her, as if she were a naive child fumbling through adult responsibilities. Each critique felt like a carefully aimed arrow, finding its mark with surgical precision. But even more than that, she hated how he made her question herself—her thoughts, her abilities, and the emotions she tried so hard to suppress.
The worst part? She couldn't shake the memory of their fingers brushing when he'd handed back her revised proposal. For just a moment, she'd seen something flicker behind those azure eyes. Something that looked almost... vulnerable.
But that was impossible. Lucien Vance didn't do vulnerable.
Worse yet, she couldn't ignore the fact that Lucien was... stunning.
His features looked carved from marble: a sharp, refined jawline that could cut glass, high cheekbones that cast shadows in the right light, and piercing eyes the color of blue crystal. His silver-black hair always looked effortlessly tousled, as if he'd just run his fingers through it, and his tall frame carried an air of restrained power that made people unconsciously step aside when he walked past.
Even his scent lingered—cool and clean, like rain before a storm, mixed with something darker and magnetic that she couldn't quite place. Something that made her want to lean closer, to breathe deeper, to lose herself in whatever spell he seemed to weave without even trying.
She hated how he made her feel.
Or did she?
The question haunted her as she made her way back to her desk, her heels clicking against the marble floor with sharp, agitated beats. Because underneath the frustration and the wounded pride, there was something else. Something warm and desperate and absolutely terrifying.
Something that felt dangerously close to longing.
---
Meanwhile, Lucienwas grappling with his own internal war.
He stood at his office window, forty-three floors above the city, watching the sun bleed crimson across the city's skyline. To anyone looking in, he appeared calm, collected—the picture of corporate control. But inside, chaos reigned.
He had always prided himself on discipline, logic, and control. Emotions were distractions, and distractions were dangerous. In his world—his real world—they could be fatal. Yet somehow, Nia had slipped past his defenses like smoke through cracks in stone.
She was the best assistant he'd ever had—diligent, intelligent, and resilient. She learned quickly, adapted even faster, and carried herself with quiet determination that reminded him of steel wrapped in silk. Her mistakes were minimal, her questions thoughtful, her insights often sharper than those of executives with decades more experience.
But she was more than competent. She was different.
There was something about her that unsettled him in ways he couldn't name. Not just her beauty—though he had noticed it, hidden behind baggy clothes and unfashionable glasses like a secret she was afraid to share—but something deeper. A light in her, untouched by the corruption he'd seen devour so many others. An honesty he hadn't encountered in years.
She challenged him without fear, stood her ground when she believed she was right, and looked at him as if he were just a man rather than the dangerous creature he truly was. She made him remember what it felt like to be human instead of merely wearing humanity like an expensive disguise.
He found himself watching her. Listening to the musical cadence of her voice during meetings. Even smiling, once or twice, when she thought he wasn't paying attention. The way she bit her lip when concentrating. The way she tucked stray curls behind her ear when nervous. The way she stood a little straighter when she was about to deliver news she knew he wouldn't want to hear.
It terrified him.
Every instinct screamed that she was a weakness he couldn't afford. With his other life—his real life—pulling at the edges of his carefully built façade, he couldn't allow personal feelings to interfere. The barrier between worlds had been weakening, energy fluctuations growing stronger by the day. Soon, he might have to return to face whatever remained of his kingdom, his people, his enemies.
And Nia would be a liability he couldn't protect.
He told himself repeatedly that she was a risk he couldn't take. And yet every time he tried to fire her, something stopped him. She was too valuable. Too unique. Too... irreplaceable.
Still, he needed distance. Space to think clearly, to rebuild the walls she'd somehow managed to breach without even trying.
So he made a decision that felt like tearing out a piece of his own soul: she would be transferred.
To the nexus City branch of Vance Corps—far from him, far from temptation, far from the danger that seemed to follow him like a shadow.
It would be a promotion, of course. He wasn't cruel enough to punish her for his weakness. But she had to go.
She had to.
But why did the thought leave a hollow ache in his chest that felt suspiciously like grief?
And worse—the question that kept him awake at night, staring at his ceiling as if it held answers he couldn't find—did she truly hate him? Or was there something else behind those flashes of anger in her dark eyes?
Something that looked almost like hurt?
---
In a dimly lit restaurant tucked between two corporate towers, a man sat by the window, swirling the contents of a wine glass he hadn't touched. His eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses, scanned the room—not for threats, but for patterns. Always for patterns.
The clatter of silverware and low murmurs of conversation formed a steady hum around him. He leaned back in his seat, exuding a quiet confidence.
"Disguise is the best shield," he murmured under his breath. "Hiding in plain sight has always been the safest cover."
This was Orion.
The Crown Prince.
He had crossed the threshold alone—sent to investigate the strange energy fluctuations affecting the barrier. In his possession were magical spatial containers filled with unimaginable wealth: stacks of gold, enchanted relics, and survival tools of ancient power.
Though barely two weeks had passed, he had already found a foothold in this foreign world. He studied human systems, gauged their weaknesses, and moved swiftly.
He now sat in one of the city's finest restaurants, dressed in sleek modern wear that did little to hide the grace of his movement or the strength in his frame. His jet-black hair was pulled into a loose tail, strands escaping to brush against a high cheekbone. The deep bronze of his skin shimmered under the soft lighting, and his jaw was cleanly sculpted, confident.
But it was his eyes that would have unsettled most—had they been able to see past the tinted lenses.
Eyes of molten silver. A color not found in this world.
The server, a young woman with a nervous smile, paused as she approached.
"Is there… anything else you'd like, sir?" she asked, her tone wavering slightly under his gaze.
He smiled faintly. "No. This is sufficient. Thank you."
She nodded quickly and hurried away, unaware that she had just served someone whose very presence defied the laws of her world.
As he sat alone, sipping slowly, a flicker from the nearby news screen caught his attention.
The Vance Corporation.
A live business summit, cameras flashing, reporters jostling for the perfect angle. And then—
Aurellion.
Orion froze.
He hadn't seen that face in ten years—not since he had been defeated and humiliated by the very person now appearing on screen.
But he had left him behind in Solara. What was he doing here? The Royal Guards had confirmed no one had escaped.
And yet, here he was. On-screen. Radiant and poised. Surrounded by humans who had no idea who he really was.
Was he really Aurellion? How could he be in two places at once? This had to be a mistake. But no—Orion was sure. That was him.
"It seems that brat still has hidden tricks. I need to be careful," Orion muttered, eyes narrowing.
His lips curled into a slow, unreadable smile. "I couldn't touch him back home because of Father... but now—"
A storm was brewing.
Two kings.
One in hiding.
One in pursuit.