The restaurant occupied the top floor of a building that didn't officially exist.
At least, that's what Damien told me as we rode the private elevator to the sixty-eighth floor of what city records claimed was a sixty-five-story structure. The elevator buttons went up to 65, but Damien had produced a silver key—the same metal as his pen—and inserted it into a hidden slot that revealed three additional floors.
"Selective reality," he explained, noting my confusion. "Humans see what they expect to see. Everything else requires... invitation."
The doors opened onto an entrance that belonged in a European palace, not Manhattan. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over marble floors inlaid with patterns that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. A maître d' in perfect evening wear approached with the smooth efficiency of someone accustomed to serving clientele who weren't entirely human.
"Good evening, Mr. Cross," he said, bowing slightly. "Your usual table is prepared."
"Thank you, Marcus." Damien's hand found the small of my back, guiding me forward. "We won't be disturbed tonight."
I almost stumbled at the name. "Marcus?"
"Different Marcus," Damien said softly, his breath warm against my ear. "Though the irony isn't lost on me."
The dining room stretched before us like a fever dream of luxury. Tables draped in silk, each lit by floating candles that cast no shadows. The other diners made me question everything I thought I knew about the natural order—a woman whose skin shimmered like scales beneath expensive makeup, a man whose shadow moved independently of his body, a couple sharing wine that glowed with its own internal light.
They all paused their conversations when we entered, turning to watch with the focused attention of predators recognizing a new apex species.
But it was the view that stopped me cold.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showed Manhattan spread below us, but not the Manhattan I knew. This version glowed with colors that had no names, where some buildings pulsed with internal light while others seemed to absorb illumination like black holes. Rivers of energy flowed between the structures—silver threads connecting points of power in a web that spanned the entire city.
"What am I looking at?" I whispered.
"New York as it really is." Damien pulled out my chair—a gesture of old-world courtesy that felt strange from someone who killed people with his thoughts. "The supernatural layer most humans never see."
I settled into the chair, silk upholstery caressing my skin like expensive sin. "Those lights..."
"Power sources. Every emotion, every transaction, every moment of human vulnerability generates energy." He took his seat across from me, silver pen already in his fingers despite having no papers to sign. "The city feeds on it. Transforms it. Redistributes it to those who know how to ask."
A server appeared beside our table—young, beautiful, with eyes that held depths no human should possess. She poured wine the color of liquid rubies without being asked, the bottle never seeming to empty despite filling two glasses.
"Thank you, Lilith," Damien said. The server smiled and melted back into the shadows between tables.
I took a sip of wine that tasted like concentrated starlight and felt heat spread through my chest. "Is anyone here actually human?"
"Does it matter?" He swirled his own glass, watching the wine catch the candlelight. "Humanity is just another classification. What matters is capability. Influence. The will to reshape reality according to your desires."
"And you're going to teach me how to do that."
"I'm going to teach you what you already know." He set down his glass and leaned forward, green eyes intense in the flickering light. "Every angel is born with the power to alter creation. Heaven just convinced you it was only meant for their purposes."
The wine was making my head swim, or maybe it was the altitude. Or the casual way he talked about rewriting the laws of physics. "What's the first lesson?"
Damien smiled and produced his phone—not the latest iPhone, but something sleeker, its surface seeming to shift between black and silver. "Revenge."
"On who?"
"Richard Kane." He swiped to what looked like a stock trading app, but the interface was wrong—too complex, showing data streams that moved too fast for human eyes to process. "Remember him? The competitor who warned you away from me at the gala?"
I did remember. A soft-looking man in an expensive suit who'd grabbed my arm and whispered urgent warnings about Damien's true nature. At the time, I'd reported the encounter to earn Damien's trust.
Now it felt like a lifetime ago.
"What did he do?"
"Besides trying to steal you away?" Damien's fingers moved across the screen with practiced ease. "He's been shorting Cross Industries stock for the past month. Spreading rumors about accounting irregularities, hinting at SEC investigations, generally trying to damage my reputation."
The screen showed a complex web of financial data—stock prices, trading volumes, market analyses that painted Cross Industries as a company teetering on the edge of scandal. Richard Kane's investment firm had taken massive short positions, betting millions that Damien's empire would collapse.
"He's going to lose a lot of money," I observed.
"More than money." Damien slid the phone across the table. "He's going to lose everything. The question is: do you want to watch, or do you want to participate?"
I stared at the screen, trying to understand what he was asking. "Participate how?"
"Touch the screen. Focus on Kane Industries—the company he built, the reputation he's so proud of, the client relationships that keep him afloat." Damien's voice dropped to something just above a whisper. "Then imagine what would happen if all of that... shifted."
My fingers hesitated above the phone's surface. "I don't know how—"
"You do know. You've always known." He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. "Angels don't create or destroy, Sera. They influence. They suggest. They make what should happen actually happen."
"And what should happen to Richard Kane?"
"That's not for me to decide." His thumb traced across my knuckles. "The question is: what do you think he deserves?"
I thought about Kane's warning, his desperate attempt to pull me away from Damien's influence. At the time, it had seemed like interference. Now, it felt like... what? Kindness? Concern for a stranger's welfare?
The thought should have given me pause. Instead, it made me angry.
Who was he to decide what was good for me? Who was he to assume I needed saving?
My finger touched the screen.
The phone's surface felt warm, almost alive. Data streams accelerated, numbers shifting too fast to follow. But somehow, I could sense the pattern beneath the chaos—the delicate web of relationships and transactions that kept Kane Industries functioning.
And I could see exactly where to apply pressure.
"There," I whispered, highlighting a particular client relationship. "Millennium Partners. They account for forty percent of his revenue, but their contract comes up for renewal next month."
"And?"
"And they've been unhappy with his performance. Not enough to leave, but..." I touched another section of the screen, feeling the information flow into my mind like water. "If they knew about the insider trading investigation the SEC is actually planning..."
Damien's smile was sharp as a blade. "How do you know about that?"
I blinked, suddenly uncertain. "I... I don't know. I just... do?"
"Because you're seeing beyond the surface now. Past the lies and misdirection to what's actually true." He leaned back, watching me with approval that sent heat through my chest. "What else do you see?"
My finger moved across the screen without conscious direction, highlighting connections and vulnerabilities with growing confidence. Kane's firm was more fragile than it appeared—built on relationships that could shift, contracts that could be challenged, reputations that could be destroyed with the right push.
"His biggest client is having cash flow problems they're hiding from investors," I said, the knowledge appearing in my mind like it had always been there. "And his star analyst is being headhunted by Goldman Sachs. And..." I touched another section, feeling something darker unfold. "And he's been skimming from client accounts to cover his own losses."
"Very good." Damien's voice held genuine pride. "Now, what would you like to happen?"
The question hung between us like a challenge. On the screen, Richard Kane's financial empire spread before me like a map of vulnerabilities, each weakness highlighted in soft red light. I should have felt sympathy for him—he was just a man trying to protect someone he thought was in danger.
Instead, I felt annoyed. Who was he to decide what was good for me? Who was he to assume I needed saving from my own choices?
The irritation grew as I studied his data, transforming into something sharper, hungrier. He'd tried to interfere with something he didn't understand, made assumptions about my agency, my intelligence, my right to choose my own path.
That deserved correction.
"I want him to understand that actions have consequences," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I want him to know what it feels like to lose everything he thinks makes him important."
The words tasted sweet on my tongue.
"Then make it happen."
My finger moved to a contact list—numbers for journalists, SEC investigators, client executives. But as I selected the first name, something strange happened. The phone's screen began to glow brighter, and the restaurant around us seemed to fade at the edges.
I could see through the contact's eyes as she received an anonymous tip about Kane Industries' hidden vulnerabilities. Could feel her excitement as she realized she'd stumbled onto a major financial scandal. Could sense the ripple effects spreading outward—other journalists picking up the story, clients demanding explanations, regulators opening investigations.
And through it all, Richard Kane's life unraveling thread by thread.
"How am I doing this?" I gasped, pulling my hand back from the screen.
"You're not doing anything." Damien refilled my wine glass, his movements casual despite what we'd just unleashed. "You're simply... encouraging the truth to surface. Helping events unfold as they were always meant to."
"That's not how reality works."
"Isn't it?" He gestured toward the window, where the city's energy web pulsed with new patterns. "Look closer."
I did, and saw silver threads of light flowing from the restaurant toward different points in the city. One stream led to a newsroom where a journalist was frantically making phone calls. Another connected to an SEC office where investigators were pulling files. A third reached toward a luxury apartment where Richard Kane was staring at his phone in growing horror.
"We're all connected," Damien explained. "Every thought, every emotion, every decision sends ripples through the web. Most people can't see the connections, let alone influence them. But you..." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing my cheek. "You're remembering what you really are."
Heat spread from his touch, but it was accompanied by something else—a sharp, stabbing pain between my shoulder blades. I gasped, reaching instinctively for the spot where my wings used to be.
"What's happening to me?"
"Growth." His hand dropped to cover mine, thumb tracing over the symbol-shaped scar on my palm. "Every time you use your real abilities, every moral boundary you cross, you become more of what you were meant to be."
"And what's that?"
"Free." The word carried weight that made the candles flicker. "Free to choose your own purpose instead of following someone else's plan. Free to pursue your own desires instead of serving a cause that cast you out for daring to love."
The pain in my back intensified, a burning ache that felt like phantom limbs trying to grow. But underneath the agony was something else—a sense of power awakening, of abilities long suppressed finally stirring to life.
"Is this normal?" I managed.
"Define normal." He signaled to Lilith, who appeared instantly with plates of food I didn't remember ordering. "Angels weren't designed to be static. You were meant to grow, evolve, become something greater than Heaven's foot soldiers."
I took a bite of something that tasted like concentrated starlight and felt strength flow through my limbs. "What do I become?"
"Whatever you choose." His eyes found mine across the table. "But first, you have to stop fighting the process."
"I'm not fighting—"
"Aren't you?" He leaned forward, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Part of you is still trying to hold onto who you used to be. Still hoping this is all some elaborate test that ends with your triumphant return to grace."
The accusation hit too close to home. "That's not true."
"Then prove it." He slid the phone back across the table. "Kane Industries is finished—that much is done. But Richard Kane himself is still walking free, still believing he can recover from this setback. Still thinking he knows better than you do about what's good for your immortal soul."
I stared at the screen, where new data streams showed Kane's personal finances, his family connections, his deepest fears and vulnerabilities laid bare like an anatomy lesson.
"What are you asking me to do?"
"I'm asking what you want to do." Damien's voice was soft, seductive, absolutely certain. "He tried to take you away from me. Tried to convince you that what we have is dangerous, wrong, something to be feared. Doesn't that deserve a response?"
My finger hovered over the screen. One touch, and I could destroy more than Kane's business empire. I could unravel his marriage, expose his secrets, leave him broken and alone with nothing but the memory of his own self-righteousness.
The thought should have horrified me.
Instead, it felt like justice.
"Show me how," I whispered.
Damien's smile was radiant as a sunrise over a battlefield.
For the next hour, he guided me through the delicate art of systematic destruction. How to identify pressure points in a person's life. How to apply influence at exactly the right moment for maximum damage. How to make someone's worst fears manifest with nothing more than focused intention and perfect timing.
Richard Kane's wife received an anonymous email containing photos of his secret gambling problem. His daughter at Columbia learned about his embezzlement from a carefully placed news article. His elderly mother discovered that the family business she'd entrusted to him was being liquidated to pay his debts.
Every revelation sent fresh agony through the man who'd thought he was protecting me from corruption. But with each small cruelty I orchestrated, something inside me awakened further. The wine tasted more vibrant. Colors seemed richer. The very air itself hummed with possibility.
And with each casual destruction of Richard Kane's life, the pain between my shoulder blades evolved from burning agony into something else—the sensation of spaces opening inside me, of dormant capabilities stretching like muscles after long sleep.
"This is what power feels like," Damien murmured as we watched Kane's world collapse through carefully orchestrated revelations. "The ability to shape reality according to your will. To ensure that people who challenge you understand the consequences of their presumption."
I touched the screen again, accessing Kane's personal email accounts with thought alone, adding one final detail—a leaked recording of him admitting he'd shorted Cross Industries stock based on illegally obtained information.
"How do you feel?" Damien asked.
I expected guilt. Shame. Horror at my capacity for calculated cruelty.
Instead, I felt... magnificent. Every nerve ending buzzed with energy, every sensation heightened beyond human limits. The candles burned brighter in my vision, the silk of my dress felt like liquid heaven against my skin, even the sound of other diners' conversations seemed to carry hidden meanings I could suddenly decode.
"Powerful," I admitted, the word tasting like honey and lightning. "And hungry. Like I've been starving without knowing it."
"Because it is." He reached across the table, fingers intertwining with mine. "Heaven keeps angels weak by convincing them that power is corruption. That influence is evil. That the ability to shape reality is something to be feared rather than embraced."
"And that's not true?"
"Power is just a tool." His thumb traced over my knuckles, sending electricity up my arm. "It's what you do with it that matters. And what you did tonight? You used it to ensure justice. To make sure someone who tried to harm us faced appropriate consequences."
The pain in my back suddenly intensified, a burning agony that made me gasp and arch forward. But this time, the pain was accompanied by something else—a sensation of something unfurling, spreading, preparing to emerge.
"What's happening?" I panted.
Damien stood and moved behind my chair, his hands settling on my shoulders with gentle pressure. "Your real nature is awakening. The question is: are you ready to embrace it?"
Through the restaurant's windows, I could see the city's energy web pulsing with new patterns, silver threads flowing toward us like tributaries feeding a river. The other diners had turned to watch, their inhuman eyes reflecting the candlelight as they witnessed... what? A transformation? A rebirth?
"Is pain supposed to be part of the process?" I managed.
"Everything worthwhile hurts at first." His voice was soft against my ear. "The question is: is the pain a sign you're doing something wrong, or something necessary?"
Before I could answer, something shifted dramatically in the space between my shoulder blades. Not the ache of phantom limbs, but the unmistakable sensation of something real and substantial pushing against the inside of my skin, demanding release.
The other diners turned to stare as shadows began pouring from me like smoke, forming shapes that were almost-but-not-quite wings. Dark, elegant silhouettes that moved independently of any wind, casting shadows that defied the laws of physics.
I looked at my reflection in the dark window and gasped. The shadows weren't just around me—they were part of me, extensions of my will made manifest. And behind them, I could see the faint outline of what was coming: wings that would make my old seraphic feathers look like pale imitations.
Wings of living darkness that belonged to something Heaven would never, could never, take back.
"Damien..." I whispered, my voice carrying harmonics that hadn't been there moments before.
"Yes?"
"What am I becoming?"
His reflection smiled in the window, beautiful and terrible and absolutely certain of what he'd helped create.
"Something that was always meant to be free."
End of Chapter 6