The boardroom was silent, save for the slow, deliberate click of Lex Armstrong's shoes against the polished marble floor. The massive table, carved from a single slab of black stone, reflected the warm golden light of the chandelier overhead — a chandelier that hung far too low for comfort, as if pressing its weight into the shoulders of the men and women seated there.
No one looked at him directly. Not until he stopped at the head of the table.
Lex didn't sit.
Instead, he placed both hands on the back of his high-backed leather chair and looked down the length of the table. His face was the same one plastered across billboards and TV ads: chiseled jaw, all-American smile, hair that hadn't changed in a decade. The face of patriotism. Of power.
But the smile wasn't there now.
"You know why we're here," Lex said, voice low, controlled.
The words fell into the air like lead weights.
Three people shifted in their seats at the far end — the ones who had been in charge of security at the Paris event.
One of them, a man named Carver, tried to meet Lex's gaze. Tried — until Lex's eyes locked onto his and froze him in place.
"The gala was flawless," Carver began, voice trembling. "We had guests from the G20, three royal families—"
"And the basement?" Lex cut in.
Carver's throat bobbed. "We… experienced a complication."
"A complication?" Lex repeated, almost kindly.
He began walking down the length of the table, slow, measured. "See, Carver… a complication is when a caterer forgets to bring the right wine. When a guest leaves early. What you had…" He stopped directly behind him. "…was a disaster."
The air in the room thickened.
"They weren't supposed to make it to the basement. They weren't supposed to see what they saw." Lex's voice hardened. "They weren't supposed to breathe after they did."
No one moved. No one dared.
Lex leaned in close to Carver's ear. "Tell me, Carver… how did they get out?"
Carver stammered, "We— we believe there was… external interference."
Lex straightened, his expression unreadable. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed Carver by the back of the neck and slammed his face into the polished table. The sound echoed through the boardroom — a sickening thud followed by Carver's muffled cry.
"You believe?" Lex said, calm again, as if the violence had been a reflex. "Belief is for priests and poets. I deal in certainty."
He nodded once toward the corner of the room.
Two security enforcers stepped forward, both built like statues, dressed in immaculate suits. Without a word, they hauled Carver up from his chair.
"Wait— please—" Carver's voice cracked. "Lex, we can fix this—"
"I don't fix," Lex interrupted. "I replace."
The security men dragged Carver toward the side door. The other two who had been with him — a woman named Holt and a young tech specialist named Vance — sat frozen in place.
Lex's gaze shifted to them.
"You two," he said, almost conversationally. "You're still here. Do you know why?"
Neither spoke.
"Because you're going to fix it. And if you don't…" He glanced toward the door Carver had just been dragged through. "You'll find out exactly where 'there' leads."
The heavy door shut behind Carver with a final, echoing boom. A silence settled over the room again — but it wasn't empty. It was the kind of silence that left a taste in your mouth. Metallic. Inevitable.
Lex turned, walking back to the head of the table, and finally sat down. His posture was casual now, as if nothing had happened.
"Now," he said, resting his elbows on the table, "tell me everything about the men in the basement and the woman upstairs."
.
.
.
Tim woke to the softest bed he had ever been in—so soft that, for a fleeting moment, he almost forgot where he was… or rather, why he should be on high alert.
His eyelids peeled open to a wash of pale gold light spilling through tall, lace-draped windows. The ceiling above him wasn't the cracked plaster of his apartment but an intricately painted dome, the kind he'd seen in museum brochures—a spiral of cherubs and vines so detailed he could almost smell the oil paint.
Tim sat up too quickly, his head pounding with a dull, lingering ache. The events of last night rushed back in jagged flashes—the gala, the basement, the auction, the chaos, the smoke, and then… nothing. A blank.
He patted himself down. Clothes still on, though his shirt had been replaced—he was wearing something white, loose, and far more expensive than anything he owned. The fabric whispered when he moved.
This isn't a hospital, he thought. Hospitals didn't have gilded bed frames, silk sheets, or candelabras that looked like they belonged in Versailles.
He swung his legs off the bed. The cold marble floor bit at his bare feet, grounding him in the reality that—whatever this was—it was real.
Tim scanned the room. A tall wardrobe stood in one corner, a carved oak desk in another, its surface perfectly arranged with stationery and a crystal inkwell. Against the far wall, a fireplace crackled softly, sending shadows dancing across gold-framed paintings.
Every detail screamed old money. Not the nouveau-riche kind that needed to prove itself, but the been-here-for-centuries, owns-half-the-country, your-last-name-is-probably-on-a-street-sign kind.
Where the hell am I?
Before he could take more than three steps, the heavy double doors creaked open.
A woman stepped inside—mid-fifties, stern posture, hair in a neat silver bun. Her black dress was crisp and without a single wrinkle, her shoes silent on the marble.
"Ah, you're awake," she said, her voice a mix of warm politeness and professional detachment. "Mr. Delaney, yes?"
Tim straightened instinctively. "Uh… yeah. I guess that's me. And you are?"
She gave a small, formal bow of her head. "Mathilda. I manage the household. You are currently in Château de la Fleur."
Tim blinked. "In… what now?"
"Castle De La Fleur," she repeated, her French accent smooth but clipped. "The private residence of Mademoiselle Natalie De La Fleur."
Tim felt his stomach drop. Natalie De La Fleur. Even if he'd wanted to forget the name, he couldn't. She was everywhere—business magazines, luxury brand commercials, charity galas. Her cosmetics empire was worth billions. She was "famous" famous, the kind of woman who could crash the stock market with a tweet.
"Right," Tim said slowly, mind racing. "And… why exactly am I in her castle?"
"That," Mathilda said, smoothing an invisible crease from her skirt, "is a matter for Mademoiselle herself to explain. She will be with you shortly."
Tim glanced around again, as if the answer might be hidden in the ornate crown molding. "So… you're saying I didn't, I don't know, accidentally book this place on Airbnb?"
The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of Mathilda's lips, but she didn't take the bait.
Instead, she moved toward a silver tray on the desk, lifting the lid from a porcelain plate. "Breakfast," she said, revealing a spread of croissants, fresh fruit, and a small pot of coffee that smelled like it had been brewed by angels.
Tim's stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.
"Uh… thanks," he muttered, still trying to wrap his head around the situation. "Not exactly the motel continental breakfast I'm used to, but… I'll manage."
"You will find the château comfortable," Mathilda said, stepping toward the door. "If you require anything, ring the bell beside your bed."
"Comfortable, huh?" Tim said. "You wouldn't happen to have a map of the place, would you? In case I get lost on my way to the, uh, medieval torture chamber?"
This time, Mathilda almost smiled. "You will not require a map, Mr. Delaney. This is not a prison."
Her tone made it sound exactly like a prison.
As she stepped out, closing the heavy doors behind her, Tim sat back down on the bed, rubbing his temples.
Alright. Let's break this down, lawyer style.
Fact 1: He was in Paris for the gala.Fact 2: The basement turned into a warzone.Fact 3: Sera and Damian were with him… and now they weren't.Fact 4: He was in a billionaire's castle, eating food worth more than his rent.
Conclusion? Either he was being protected… or he was being tucked away somewhere he couldn't cause trouble.
He stood, pacing the room, running a hand over the intricate carvings on the wardrobe door. Every inch of the place was a reminder that he didn't belong here.
Through the window, he could see perfectly manicured gardens stretching out like a green ocean, fountains glittering under the morning sun. Beyond that, stone walls rose high, ivy climbing them like they'd been standing for centuries.
He caught sight of two men in dark suits patrolling the grounds. Not gardeners. Not here.
Tim backed away from the window.
Damian and Sera left me here. That stuck like a splinter. They hadn't even been subtle about wanting him out of the way before.
"Hell of a way to ghost someone," he muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
The warmth steadied his hands, but his brain was still running circles. If Sera and Damian trusted this Natalie enough to dump him here, then either she was an ally… or she was powerful enough that even they wouldn't cross her.
Neither option made him feel any better.
The coffee was halfway gone when the door opened again. Mathilda reappeared—only this time, her expression was sharper, her posture even straighter.
"Mademoiselle De La Fleur will see you now."
Tim set down his coffee, wiped his hands on the ridiculous silk pajama top they'd given him, and followed Mathilda through the hallway.
The corridor stretched on like it belonged in a museum—arched ceilings painted with more celestial scenes, chandeliers glittering above polished marble floors that reflected their steps. Along the walls hung portraits of stern-faced nobles, their eyes following him as he passed. He couldn't tell if it was the centuries-old varnish or his paranoia making them look judgmental.
"So," Tim muttered, "do I bow? Curtsy? Offer a gift basket?"
Mathilda's silence was its answer.
They stopped in front of a pair of towering double doors carved with roses so lifelike he half expected them to bloom. Mathilda pushed them open with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times, revealing a study that looked like it had been lifted from the set of a period drama.
Floor-to-ceiling windows poured daylight onto shelves lined with leather-bound books. A grand fireplace dominated the far wall, flanked by sculptures and vases older than the United States. The faint scent of jasmine drifted through the air.
And there she was.
Natalie De La Fleur stood near the fireplace, her posture effortlessly commanding. In person, she was even more striking than the magazine covers—tall, poised, hair the color of dark wine cascading over one shoulder. She wore a deep emerald dress that managed to be both regal and understated.
Her gaze landed on Tim, sharp and assessing.
"Mr. Delaney," she said in flawless English, the faintest French lilt curling her vowels. "I see you are awake."
"Apparently," Tim replied, lingering in the doorway. "Though I was hoping to wake up in my bed. Maybe with a croissant. Not… here."
A small smile ghosted across her lips. "The croissant, at least, I could provide. The rest… I'm afraid the circumstances were not in your control."
"You mean the part where I passed out after watching a roomful of billionaires bid on people like they were antique furniture?"
Her eyes didn't flinch at the bluntness. "Yes. That part."
Tim stepped further in. "Where are Sera and Damian?"
"Gone," Natalie said simply. "They asked me to see that you were safe, then left."
The words landed like a slap. "Safe? That's not their call to make."
"They believed it was." She moved toward a bar cart and poured herself a glass of something amber. "You were… unprepared for what you witnessed."
"You think?" Tim shot back. "And you're what, the woman in the smoke? The one who—" he stopped himself, picturing the way she'd dismantled those soldiers without hesitation.
"You recognize me," she said, not as a question but as a statement.
Tim hesitated. "I think so. But you were moving like… like something I don't even have words for."
Natalie swirled her drink. "You're asking questions you don't truly want the answers to."
"I think I do," Tim countered. "In fact, I think I've earned them. I didn't fly across the ocean just to be parked in some billionaire's guest room and told to go home."
Her eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in curiosity. "And yet, that is exactly what I intend for you to do. You will return to your country. You will tell no one what you saw. And in time, you will forget it."
"Not a chance."
The two words landed heavy in the air.
Natalie's head tilted. "You are… persistent."
"I'm desperate," Tim said, his voice tightening. "Eva—my sister—is all I've got left. I don't know if she's alive, but if there's even a sliver of a chance…" He shook his head. "You can tell me this isn't my fight. You can tell me I'm out of my depth. Fine. But I'm not walking away."
Her gaze softened slightly. "And if I told you there was no chance?"
Tim swallowed hard. "Then I'd ask you to tell me that to my face, and I'd still go looking anyway."
The silence stretched.
Finally, Natalie set her glass down with a delicate clink. "Damian and Sera did not tell you much."
"They told me nothing," Tim said. "Just enough to make me think they're involved in something big… something dangerous."
Her lips curved, but it wasn't quite a smile. "They are searching. Others like us."
Tim frowned. "Others like us? What does that mean?"
Rather than answer, Natalie gestured for him to follow. "Come."
They left the study and wound through another hallway, this one dimmer, lined with tall, shuttered windows. At the far end stood a door unlike the rest—solid oak reinforced with black iron bands.
Natalie unlocked it with a key she wore on a chain around her neck. "What you are about to see is not for idle curiosity, Mr. Delaney."
The hinges groaned as the door swung inward.
Inside, the room was completely dark. Natalie stepped in and closed the door behind them, sealing out every trace of light.
For a moment, Tim's breath quickened in the blackness. "Not gonna lie, this feels very… serial killer-y."
Then Natalie exhaled, and the air shimmered.
A pale light bloomed from her fingertips—soft at first, then growing, cascading across the walls like liquid gold. The light caught on painted surfaces, and suddenly the darkness wasn't empty anymore.
Murals covered every inch of the walls—figures tall and regal, wielding impossible powers, their eyes burning with light. They stood in landscapes Tim didn't recognize—mountains split in half, oceans boiling, cities made of glass and fire.
The light wasn't just showing the murals—it was animating them. The figures moved, their cloaks billowing, weapons drawn.
Tim stared, jaw slack. "Okay… what the hell is this?"
Natalie's voice was quiet, almost reverent. "This… is history. A story most of your world has forgotten. A story of those who were called the Avatars."
The word seemed to vibrate in the air, carrying a weight Tim couldn't explain.