Gunshots echoed through the Vixens' estate like they belonged there—like they always had. Sarima Vixen didn't flinch. She simply stared at the ceiling above her bed, waiting for the noise to settle into the background of her morning. Another normal day in a family that had never been normal.
She used to think she had been adopted out of love. Something soft. Something simple. But her parents already had three sons. She hadn't been wanted. She had been chosen. Her mother wanted a daughter without the burden of childbirth, and her father had accepted her as part of an exchange. And now, that exchange was finally about to be completed.
Her gaze drifted toward the bedside table. The object was still there. A thorn bangle. And beside it, another letter.
Her fingers brushed against the sharp edges as she picked it up, irritation tightening in her chest. "Still insane," she muttered under her breath.
Two years.
Two years of gifts, letters, and messages that never made sense. And yet, he always got in. No matter how heavily guarded the estate was. No matter how impossible it should've been. She had never seen him—not once—but sometimes she swore she could feel him watching her.
A chill crept down her spine, and she dropped the bangle and letter back onto the table, suddenly unwilling to touch them any longer.
Tonight wasn't about him.
It was about the arrangement her parents had already made for her—a dinner, a contract, and a marriage to a man she had never met.
The mansion felt quieter than usual when she stepped out of her room. Too quiet. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath. By the time she was dressed and ready, the black fabric of her gown hugging her frame perfectly, the feeling still hadn't disappeared.
She should've been used to this by now. To control. To silence. To pretending.
But something felt wrong.
She ignored it.
She always did.
The ride to the Houston estate passed in silence. Her parents sat across from her in the car, looking every bit like the picture-perfect couple the public adored. Anyone watching from the outside would've thought they were perfect. They would've been wrong.
"Sarima."
Her father's voice sliced through the silence.
"Yes, Dad."
"We are going to the Houstons' residence," he said evenly. "I expect you to behave… ladylike."
Not yourself. Never yourself.
Sarima gave a small nod. "I understand."
That was all he wanted.
The Houston estate was blindingly white. White gates. White walls. White marble floors. Everything looked painfully pure. Too pure.
"It's almost unsettling," she murmured quietly.
No one responded.
Of course no one did.
They were led into the dining room, and the atmosphere shifted immediately. Polite smiles. Measured greetings. Controlled movements. It wasn't dinner. It was business disguised as luxury.
Sarima took her seat, already knowing exactly how the night would end.
With her.
"Mr. Vixen… welcome."
"The pleasure is ours."
Lies. All of it.
The conversation began with profits, investments, and partnerships, but it didn't take long before the attention drifted toward her.
"Sarima," Mrs. Houston said smoothly, her sharp gaze settling on her. "I hear you're in your third year at university. Will you be able to manage your studies alongside marriage?"
A test.
Before Sarima could answer, her mother interrupted effortlessly.
"She will. She's a Vixen. We don't struggle with responsibility."
Sarima went still. Not because she agreed, but because she was expected to.
Servants moved silently around the table, placing dishes in front of the guests with mechanical precision. Every single one of them wore masks.
Strange.
Her fingers tightened slightly against her lap.
Something about this felt wrong.
Then she noticed him.
The man she was apparently supposed to marry.
Silent.
Watching.
He hadn't spoken once since she arrived, and yet his gaze had not left her for a second.
Her chest tightened.
There was something about him. Something she couldn't explain. Something familiar.
Then it hit her.
A scent.
Sharp. Spicy. Unmistakable.
Her breath caught instantly.
No.
That wasn't possible.
She had smelled it before. Too many times. In her room. In empty hallways. In places no one should've been.
Her pulse spiked violently.
She reached for her glass of water, but her trembling hand betrayed her. The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor.
Silence crashed over the table.
Every head turned toward her.
But Sarima wasn't looking at them.
She was searching for the scent.
It was stronger now.
Closer.
Right behind her.
Her entire body went rigid as she slowly turned.
A servant stood there motionless.
Watching her.
Then he lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
And everything inside her dropped.
Recognition.
Not confusion.
Not curiosity.
Recognition.
A slow smirk spread across his lips.
Cold.
Certain.
Terrifying.
And in that moment, Sarima knew.
He was here.