Lucas clung to the shadows at the edge of the grand hall, the dim corners his only shield against the blinding glare of the chandeliers. Their golden light spilled across the room, gilding the faces of the elite in a mockery of warmth—polished smiles, hollow laughter, the clink of champagne flutes like the ticking of a clock counting down to nothing. He pressed himself against the cold marble wall, the smooth stone a fleeting comfort, willing himself to fade into it, to escape the weight of their eyes. But his father, Arthur Grim, had a predator's instinct. From the stage, his silver hair catching the spotlight like a crown, Arthur's gaze sliced through the crowd and pinned Lucas where he stood.
"Lucas," Arthur's voice rang out, deep and commanding, a summons no one could ignore. The room stilled, heads swiveling, whispers rippling like wind through dead leaves. "Come up here, son."
The words were a chain, yanking Lucas from his refuge. His chest tightened, his breath shallow as he stepped forward, each footfall a betrayal of his desire to vanish. The crowd parted, their stares raking over him—some curious, some envious, all ravenous. He climbed the velvet-draped steps to the stage, the platform a gallows beneath the searing lights. Sweat beaded on his brow, the heat of the spotlights pressing down like a physical force, exposing him. Arthur's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy, possessive, a king claiming his heir.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Arthur began, his voice smooth as oil, "tonight, we're not just here to celebrate Grim Enterprises' triumphs. We're proud to unveil a new endeavor—a nonprofit organization to provide shelter and work for the homeless of our city."
The announcement detonated a wave of applause, a roaring tide that crashed against the walls. Hands clapped in unison, a mechanical rhythm, faces splitting into grins too wide to be real. It was a performance, a public stunt orchestrated to paint the Grim name in noble hues for the lower and middle classes—a cheap veneer over the family's greed. Lucas saw it in their eyes, the emptiness behind the cheers, the hollowness ringing beneath the noise. They clapped because they were expected to, cheered because it was scripted. The room was a theater of liars, and he was trapped center stage.
Then he saw her—a woman in a red dress, standing apart near the front. She wasn't part of the charade. Her hands rested still at her sides, her lips curved in a quiet, genuine smile. She was beautiful, but not in the artificial way of the others, with their sculpted faces and borrowed elegance. Her beauty was untamed—hair black as a moonless night tumbling over her shoulders, skin luminous against the scarlet fabric that clung to her like a second skin. But it was her eyes that stopped him—dark, fathomless wells that held a spark of something real, something alive. They locked onto his, unflinching, and for a moment, the cacophony of the room faded, leaving only her.
Arthur droned on, extolling the virtues of charity, but Lucas's attention was tethered to her. Who was she? Why did her gaze feel like a lifeline in this sea of falsity? A shiver traced his spine, a whisper of the unease he'd felt earlier with the raven's stare.
When Arthur finished, he nudged Lucas forward. "Say a few words, son."
Lucas swallowed, his throat dry, his hands trembling at his sides. He stepped to the podium, the crowd's eyes a weight he couldn't shake. "This… this isn't about us," he said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the room's hum. "It's about them—the people out there who need more than promises. They deserve real help, not just a show."
The words were blunt, unpolished, a stark contrast to the rehearsed eloquence of the night. A murmur rippled through the audience, surprise flickering across their faces. Then applause broke out again, this time less uniform, more genuine. People leaned forward, drawn to him, their masks slipping. Arthur's eyes glinted with approval—he saw potential, a tool to wield.
As they descended the stage, the crowd closed in. Women in shimmering gowns pressed closer, their fingers brushing his arms, their voices dripping with honeyed flattery.
"Lucas, that was incredible."
"So honest, so refreshing."
"You're going to do great things."
He forced a tight smile, his skin prickling under their touch. They didn't care about him—they wanted the Grim name, the power, the prestige. He thought of Carla, her warmth, her truth, and the ache in his chest deepened. He shrugged them off, his expression cold, retreating into himself.
Arthur appeared beside him, a shadow in a tailored suit. "You've got their attention now," he said, his tone laced with satisfaction. "Come with me. There's someone you need to meet."
He guided Lucas through the throng to a quieter corner where the woman in the red dress waited. Up close, she was mesmerizing—her presence a quiet storm, her eyes darker than the void, fixed on him with an intensity that made his pulse race. Arthur smiled, a rare genuine curve of his lips. "Lucas, this is Mrs. Ada, owner of Redcliff Industries, one of the largest real estate empires in the country. Ada, my son, Lucas."
"A pleasure," Ada said, her voice a velvet blade, accented with something foreign and unplaceable. She extended her hand, her movements deliberate, her gaze never wavering. Lucas hesitated, then took it. Her skin was cool, her grip firm, and the instant their hands met, a bolt of agony tore through him.
It was as if a drill had plunged into his skull, grinding through bone and brain, splintering his mind into jagged shards. Pain seared his eyes, a white-hot fire that blinded him, and he saw it—the raven, its black wings unfurling, its pearl eyes piercing his soul. Chunks of his thoughts seemed to rip away, lost to the void, and he gasped, wrenching his hand free. He stumbled back, crashing against the wall, his chest heaving, the room spinning.
"Lucas?" Arthur's voice cut through the haze, sharp with alarm. "What's wrong?"
The pain receded, leaving a throbbing echo, his vision clearing to reveal the unchanged faces around him. Ada watched him, her expression serene, unperturbed, as if she hadn't just shattered him. "I'm fine," Lucas rasped, the lie bitter on his tongue. "Just… need air."
He pushed past them, his legs unsteady, the crowd a blur of color and noise. The bodyguards materialized, escorting him to the exit, their silence a mercy. Outside, the night air stung his lungs, crisp and unforgiving, but it couldn't erase the heat in his head. He slid into the Mercedes, the leather cold against his skin.
"Mr. Grim?" Elena's voice came from the driver's seat, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. "You okay?"
"Drive," he barked, wincing at his own harshness. The car pulled away, the gala's lights shrinking behind them, and Lucas pressed his forehead to the window, the glass a fleeting balm. His mind churned, replaying the handshake, the pain, the raven. What was that? Was he breaking apart, or was something else breaking into him? Ada's face lingered—her calm, her knowing. Did she feel it too, or was she its source?
The city streaked by, a smear of neon and shadow, and his hands clenched into fists. The raven's eyes haunted him, twin pearls of accusation. He'd seen them before, outside his window, and now they'd invaded his skull. A coincidence? A warning? His head pulsed, a dull ache, and nausea coiled in his gut.
At his building, he stumbled up the stairs, the familiar groan of the wood anchoring him. In his room, he locked the door and collapsed onto the bed, staring into the dark. The pain was gone, but its ghost lingered, a tremor in his bones. He touched his temples, expecting blood, finding only sweat. Ada's gaze, the raven's stare—they were threads in a tapestry he couldn't yet see, pulling tighter around him.
Sleep eluded him, the night stretching on, thick with questions. The gala, the speech, the handshake—it was a fracture in his reality, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something vast and dark was waking beneath it all.