Emilia Monroe stood just outside the airport doors, her suitcase upright beside her, one hand resting on its handle like an anchor.
She wore a cream-colored long-sleeve top tucked into dark high-waisted jeans, a light trench coat draped over her shoulders despite the mild weather. White sneakers ,comfortable, practical. Nothing about her outfit suggested excitement. It was the kind of clothing you wore when you didn't want to be noticed.
Her brown hair fell loose down her back, slightly tangled from the flight, framing a face too sharp and alert for someone her age. Her green eyes scanned the unfamiliar space with quiet unease.
Beside her, her mother checked her phone for the third time in less than a minute.
"This should be him," her mother said briskly, adjusting the collar of her tailored navy blazer. She looked composed, professional—already belonging here in a way Emilia didn't.
Emilia didn't answer.
Her fingers tightened slowly around the suitcase handle.
"Mum," she said at last, her voice flat, "do you ever stop and think about what you're dragging me into?"
Her mother looked up, irritation flashing across her face. "Dragging you into?"
"Yes," Emilia replied. "You decided. I followed."
"That's unfair," her mother said sharply. "I took this job for us."
"No," Emilia said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. "You took it for you."
A pause.
Her mother exhaled through her nose. "You're being dramatic."
Emilia let out a small, humorless laugh. "You didn't even ask if I wanted to leave."
"I didn't need to," her mother replied. "The company is sponsoring your university tuition. An elite school. Do you know how lucky that makes you?"
Emilia's jaw tightened. She lifted a hand to her chest, fingers pressing lightly against the dull ache that hadn't left her since landing.
"I don't feel lucky," she said. "I feel like I'm walking into something I don't understand."
Her mother rolled her shoulders, adjusting her bag. "You're just afraid of change."
"No," Emilia said, finally turning to look at her. "I'm afraid because my body feels like it recognizes this place."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know," Emilia snapped softly. "That's the problem."
Before her mother could respond, a calm voice interrupted them.
"Mrs. Monroe?"
They turned.
The man approaching them wore a dark suit, perfectly pressed, his tie neat, his posture rigid with discipline. His movements were controlled, precise—every step measured.
"I'm your assigned chauffeur," he said. "Welcome."
Emilia froze.
Her breath stuttered.
The noise of the airport seemed to fade as her gaze locked onto his face.
She had never seen him before.
And yet—
Her fingers slipped from the suitcase handle, hand hanging uselessly at her side as her heart began to race.
Her mother stepped forward immediately, shaking his hand. "Thank you. The flight was exhausting."
"I'll take your luggage," he replied.
As he reached for Emilia's suitcase, their fingers brushed.
The contact sent a sharp jolt through her arm.
Emilia recoiled instinctively, her hand flying back to her chest.
The chauffeur paused, his grip tightening slightly on the handle. His eyes flicked to her face—studying, searching—before his expression smoothed.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I—" Emilia swallowed. "Yes. Sorry."
Her mother glanced at her, frowning. "What's wrong with you?"
Emilia ignored her. Her gaze stayed fixed on the chauffeur.
"Have we met before?" she asked.
Her mother stiffened. "Emilia."
"I don't believe so," he said calmly, though his eyes lingered a fraction longer than polite.
"That's strange," Emilia murmured, rubbing her fingers together. "I feel like I've seen you somewhere important."
"Memory can be misleading," he replied.
As they walked outside, Emilia followed silently, her coat clutched closed around her body.
The moment she stepped past the airport doors, pain bloomed sharply in her chest.
She stopped, pressing her palm flat against it.
Her mother turned back, impatience written all over her face. "What now?"
"I don't feel right," Emilia said quietly.
Her mother sighed. "You never do."
And for the first time since landing, Emilia felt completely alone.
**
Lucien Valerius woke violently.
His hand shot out, claws tearing through silk sheets as his chest rose in a sharp, unnecessary breath.
He sat upright, black hair falling into his eyes, his bare torso marked faintly with ancient scars that glowed and faded beneath the moonlight.
"No," he whispered.
The mansion was silent, vast, and cold—stone walls etched with sigils older than humanity itself.
His fingers pressed hard against his chest.
That presence—
"I felt you," he murmured, voice rough. "After a thousand years."
He rose from the bed, long strides carrying him to the window. One hand braced against the glass as if grounding himself.
"I watched you die," he said, jaw clenched. "I tried to follow you."
Immortality had denied him.
Now fate mocked him again.
Lucien closed his eyes, demon blood stirring violently beneath his skin.
"If this is a dream," he said quietly, "then it's cruel."
His eyes opened, glowing faintly red.
"And if it isn't," he added, voice dark with promise, "then I will not lose you again."