Alina stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse, tracing the city lights with her fingertip. The glittering skyline stretched endlessly, a dazzling display of wealth, power, and life—yet it felt like a world she could never truly touch. The towers glistened like polished diamonds, the roads buzzed with unending motion, but to her, it was all a distant play on a stage she didn't belong to.
Every luxury she had inherited from her family seemed to whisper a single truth: everything she wanted was already hers—except freedom.
Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she paced, the sound ricocheting in the otherwise quiet room. The penthouse was pristine, every detail curated by designers: silken drapes spilling like waterfalls, shelves filled with books she never had time to read, art pieces her mother boasted about at luncheons. It was a home meant to impress, not to comfort.
And beneath all of it, she felt trapped.
Parties, galas, social obligations—her life was perfect on the surface, polished and shiny. To the world, she was a woman who had everything. But what use was beauty, wealth, and admiration when each day felt like being paraded in front of invisible bars? She was the bird in the golden cage, its wings clipped, its song silenced.
The sharp ping of her phone shattered her reverie. Alina paused, frowning as she crossed to the sofa and picked it up. Usually, it would be a message about an upcoming charity dinner, her mother's reminders about smiling for cameras, or her friends sending glossy photos from their designer brunches. But the name on the screen made her heart stumble.
Daemon.
She froze.
For a long moment, she simply stared at the name, convinced her eyes were playing tricks on her. Her hand tightened around the phone, and she felt her heartbeat climb into her throat.
Daemon was not a man who texted. He was a man people whispered about. The kind of man whose name traveled in boardrooms and underground alleys alike. He was power wrapped in darkness. Rumors painted him as ruthless, merciless, and impossible to refuse. People feared him. Even her father, who commanded respect in every circle he walked into, had once gone quiet when Daemon's name slipped into conversation.
And now, he was here—on her screen.
Her throat went dry as she opened the message.
We need to talk.
Just four words. Simple, almost unassuming. And yet, they carried the weight of a storm.
Her stomach tightened. Every rational instinct screamed at her to delete the message, to forget it had ever arrived. Nothing good could come from answering. Daemon's attention was a curse disguised as a gift.
But there was another voice inside her, soft but insistent. A daring, reckless part of herself she rarely let breathe. The part that longed for something beyond glass towers and polite smiles. That voice urged her forward.
Her thumb hovered over the screen before finally moving.
Fine. Where?
The reply came faster than her next breath.
Midnight. Pier 7. Come alone.
Her pulse quickened. She read the words over and over. Midnight. Alone. Pier 7.
She knew the pier—desolate, cloaked in fog at night, far from the polished glow of her world. It was not a place for women like her. It was a place where shadows lived.
Her mind waged war with itself. Every instinct told her to stay home. To shut her phone off, curl into bed, and wake up tomorrow pretending this never happened. But another part of her—wild, starved, restless—ached to know what waited in the fog.
She changed quickly.
The black dress she chose was sleek, hugging her figure without being too daring, the kind of elegance she knew wouldn't betray her nerves. She slipped on a tailored coat, her hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulders. For a moment she hesitated before reaching for her perfume, the one with notes of spice and amber that always made her feel bolder. A single spritz clung to her skin like invisible armor.
Tonight, she decided, she would step into the unknown.
The drive stretched endlessly. The city outside blurred by, neon lights reflected on the wet asphalt, each traffic signal a reminder she could turn back. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened with every block she passed.
Who was he, really? she wondered. What did he want from me? And why me?
By the time she reached the harbor, fog had rolled in thick, curling over the water like smoke. The pier loomed ahead, silent and forsaken. Each step she took echoed off the damp planks.
And then she saw him.
A lone figure emerged from the mist, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with deliberate grace, like a predator certain of his claim. His black coat flared slightly in the night breeze, and the closer he drew, the sharper the air felt around her.
Daemon.
His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and commanding. In that single look, she felt both the chill of the night and a strange heat that ran through her veins.
"You're late," he said. His voice was low, smooth, and impossible to ignore, as if the darkness itself leaned in to carry his words.
"I could say the same to you," Alina replied, steadying herself despite the tremor beneath her skin. She refused to show fear—not here, not now.
He studied her in silence, his eyes piercing through the mist, assessing, weighing… claiming. Every second of his gaze felt like a challenge, like he was peeling back the layers she had spent years hiding behind.
Then, slowly, a faint smile touched his lips—subtle, dangerous.
"From tonight," he said, stepping closer, "nothing will ever be the same for you, Alina."
Her heart thundered, the sound deafening in her ears. She knew, instinctively, that he was right. Every choice she had ever made, every comfort she had known, every gilded bar of her cage—had led her here, to this moment.
And now, standing on the edge of the pier with him, she realized something chilling and undeniable.
Her life—as she had known it—was over.