Lucian Vale didn't need a stage. He didn't need a crowd. Just one room, one glance, and the world bent around him.
He lounged in the corner of the private lounge, a glass of whiskey in his hand, eyes half-lidded, observing. The hum of conversation filled the room, soft music in the background, but no one dared approach him. Not boldly. Not directly.
It wasn't his wealth they feared—it wasn't even his beauty. It was him. The way he moved, spoke, smiled. The faint, knowing curve of his lips hinted at secrets no one would dare uncover. He was untouchable. A predator wrapped in perfection.
A woman in sequins edged closer, her gaze obvious, her desire written plain. Lucian's eyes flicked to hers—not warm, not cruel, just… acknowledging. She froze under the intensity of his stare. She wanted him. He could see it. She feared him. He could see that too. And he smiled, a slow, lazy smile that promised nothing, gave nothing, but whispered danger with every curve.
"Mr. Vale," she breathed, stepping closer.
Lucian lifted his glass, letting the light catch the rim. "Do you think you want me, or do you think you can have me?" His voice was soft, teasing, and entirely untouchable.
Her knees went weak. He didn't reach for her. He didn't need to. That was the point. Every word, every glance, every subtle movement was a trap. And she was already caught.
He turned his attention elsewhere, letting the tension linger in the air, letting them burn in their own curiosity. Someone else tried to make conversation. Lucian listened, nodded politely, let them spill their little lives, and then—without a single harsh word—he ended it. A tilt of the head, a smile that didn't invite closeness, and the conversation died.
People wanted him. They craved him. And yet, they feared him.
No one ever touched him. No one ever held him. And he let them stay that way.
Lucian sipped his whiskey, eyes scanning the room. He was naughty, playful, teasing… yes. But nothing in the room would ever cross the line. He held all the cards, and everyone knew it.
And when he finally left the lounge, quiet as a shadow slipping into the night, the room stayed silent long after his absence. People whispered his name. They wanted him. They feared him. And that was exactly how he liked it.