"I'll be the darkness in your day, the shadow you can't escape." – Lucivar
Evening in New York had never felt this suffocating. Neon lights flickered off glass towers, reflecting in puddles left from a fleeting drizzle. The hum of traffic usually felt alive, electric, but tonight it was nothing. The chaos wasn't the city – it was me.
I, Kymara Elle Rivienne, stepped out of my black SUV, and for a heartbeat,the streets seemed to pause. Taxi drivers stalled mid-turn, street vendors abandoned their grills, pedestrians froze mid-step. The paparazzi had already found me. Camera's raised, microphones shoved forward, voices screaming the same question I'd answer a thousand times.
Yet today felt different.
My hair, a luxurious cascade of blonde streaked with black, caught the flashes like fire. Grey-blue eyes scanned the crowd – cold, untouchable, untamed. Today I wore Rivienne's new season collection: a midnight silk dress that clung to my body as if it had been stitched to my very confidence. Every inch of me screamed power, wealth, untouchable beauty. Even the paparazzi couldn't hide the way their hands lingered in the cameras – their breath caught mid-stutter. They'd seen famous women, socialites, stars – but non compared. Not even close.
And yet every camera captured the truth – America goddess humiliated.
Because behind the elegance, behind the poise, I knew the whole world was laughing.
My bodyguards instantly moved into formation, tall walls of muscle dressed in black, trying to shove the wave of paparazzi back. But the photographers didn't care. Their voices were like daggers, sharp, cruel, merciless.
"Kymara! Are the rumours true?"
"Did Stefan leave you for another woman?"
"Is Stefan moving into that model's apartment?"
"Did you really buy him cars and he still dumped you?"
"Kymara – tell us! How does it feel to be played?"
Every word pierced my pride like acid.
I kept walking, long legs slicing through the mob like blades. The sound of my designer heels striking pavement was a metronome of dominance – click, click, click, click – steady unshaken.
But my chest burned. Not from fear. From shame.
It was humiliating. Not just for me, but for my empire I built. Heiress to the fashion and beauty empire. I had wealth, fame, status. I could have chosen anyone. And yet I had chosen him.
Stefan.
The man I'd raised out of dirt. A man who once scrubbed dishes in the back of a failing dinner. A man with no name, no connections no future, until I gave him my hand.
I gave him my name in the society, introduced him to elite circles he would have never touched.
And in return, he had cheated. Lied. Humiliated me.
I imagine him now, smug in some apartment I had paid for, living the life I'd given him.
It wasn't about the money. Yes, he had everything I gave him – but what burned more was that he stole my trust, my pride, my place in his heart. And he did it publicly. He left my name smeared across every city blog, every social media feed.
"Guess even goddesss can get used and dumped." A rival socialite in the crowd sneered.
My best friend Sorella's voice echoed in my mind: "That man will ruin you, Kymara. He doesn't love you. He loves your money."
I'd laugh it off. I'd ignore her. Now, Sorella had been right, and I was the fool of the century.
My bodyguards pushed harder, creating a path. I walked each step heavy with anger, humiliation and pride too stubborn to crack.
And through the chaos, someone else was watching.
...
In the backseat of a black Maybach s680, parked discreetly across the street, Lucivar Kael Moretti leaned back in the leather seats that cost more than most people's annual rent.
The tinted glass shielded him from the chaos outside, but he saw me. Every detail. Every curve. Every crack in my perfect facade.
His eyes – glacial blue, predatory calm – tracked my movements with unsettling patience. He studied me like a puzzle he already knew he'd solve. The city hummed around him, lights reflecting off his sharp features, but his attention was only on me.
I didn't see the way his jaw tensed, or how he tilted his head, watching me as the paparazzi continued their chaotic dance.
I was fury wrapped in beauty. Fire in silk.
And yet, he noticed the way my fingers curled, just slightly as if holding my rage together. He noticed the flicker of pain behind my frozen glare. He saw the weakness I fought so hard to hide.
"Interesting," he murmured.
"Sir?"
Lucivar hadn't taken his eyes off me. "Who is she?"
The driver hesitated, clearly surprised that his boss didn't already know. "That's Kymara Elle Rivienne, CEO of Rivienne cosmetics. Second runner-up in the universe pageant.
Lucivar repeated my name softly, testing the weight of it on his tongue. Kymara Elle Rivienne. The word had sounded almost intoxicating – bittersweet and dangerous.
He had heard it before, years ago, when he was still a boy. He was sure of it. He just couldn't remember where.
"There's a scandal, sir," his driver had added carefully. "Word is, she was used and dumped by her ex. The city says she destroys everything she touches. Her ex bled her dry, used her money to rise, then tossed her aside for another woman. Now people whisper her empire is crumbling. Rivienne cosmetics is barely holding on. They say she's poison."
Lucivar's eyes had darkened, his smile sharpening. "Poison," he echoed softly. "The sweetest kind is always the one that doesn't know it's deadly."
And then, with slow, deliberate grace, the Maybach's tinted glass hummed down.
For a heartbeat – one fragile, damning heartbeat – our words collided. I lifted my head against the chaos, and through the strobe of flashing cameras, a pair of icy blue eyes locked with mine. Piercing. Claiming. Eyes that didn't belong to a stranger. Eyes that knew me.
My breath caught – a silent hitch drowned beneath the roar of the city. I blinked, blinded by the light, and when I looked again, the window had rolled up with a small mechanical hiss.
The car pulled away. The crowd swallowed the moment whole.
I didn't know it then.
I couldn't.
But the devil himself had already decided – I was his.