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“This isn’t real,” I whispered, but even as I said it, the commercial changed. Now Ryker stared out at me, modeling a cologne called “Storm.” His storm-blue eyes crackled with contained lightning as he smirked at the camera. Another blink, and it was Archer’s turn, his sunshine smile lighting up some fashion brand’s billboard.

The elevator’s mirrored walls played tricks with my reflection, reality blurring like watercolors in rain. One moment I saw a worn-out marketing associate drowning in his clearance-rack blazer, the next a delicate vampire prince wrapped in royal purple coat. Then my reflection would vanish entirely, leaving only empty space where a person should be.

The fever under my skin pulsed in time with the floor numbers, making the air feel thick and heavy. The elevator doors opened onto our floor, but for a moment I saw the Whitlock penthouse’s marble foyer instead of corporate carpet. The scent of premium coffee from the break room twisted into something metallic and sweet—blood bags with cute lavender straws. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

“Luca!” Ms. Rodriguez’s voice cut through my haze. “Boardroom. Now.”

She stood in the doorway like an angry dragon, her face flickering between human and something ancient and powerful. The stack of papers in her hands looked like scrolls covered in supernatural sigils before snapping back to quarterly reports.

“I have the Beyond Beauty presentation,” I said, though my voice sounded far away even to my own ears. The laptop felt impossibly heavy as I set it up, my fingers trembling against the keys.

The board members filed in, their faces gray and indistinct like badly tuned television channels. Ms. Rodriguez started speaking, but her words faded in and out like a bad radio signal.

“The luxury market demands…” Static. “…target demographic…” More static.

“Little bat?”

I froze. That voice—deep, rich with alpha power—couldn’t be here. But it was, clear as crystal despite being impossible.

“Can you hear me, Luca?”

Warmth suddenly enveloped my right hand, phantom fingers intertwining with mine. I looked down, but there was nothing there. Yet I could feel it—Zane’s touch, his strength trying to anchor me.

“The market research shows significant growth in…” Ms. Rodriguez’s voice competed with other murmurs, distant but familiar voices discussing medical terms.

“…fever’s still too high…”

“…ancient blood isn’t working fast enough…”

“…power manifestation unlike anything…”

A cool hand brushed my forehead, carrying the scent of winter storms. Ryker? But when I turned, there was only the bland corporate art on the boardroom wall. Yet I could have sworn I felt lips press against my temple, heard his voice whisper,“Stay with us, prince.”

The fluorescent lights flickered, each flash making the room shift between corporate boardroom and hospital room, between gray suits and worried supernatural faces.

“Come back to us,”Archer’s sunshine-warm voice teased near my ear.“You’re missing all the fun. Sylvie’s already planned your welcome home party.”

The boardroom dissolved around me like watercolor in rain. Ms. Rodriguez’s voice faded completely, replaced by something deeper, older—a voice that felt like safety and family and ancient power.

“Luca?” the voice called, and suddenly I wasn’t in the office anymore. “Stay strong, little one.”

“Grandfather Alexander?” The name came unbidden to my lips, though I couldn’t remember how I knew it.

The corporate world ripped away like wet paper. Suddenly I stood in a grand mansion, everything bright and vivid after the gray world I’d been trapped in. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow light across marble floors. The air smelled of roses and something metallic-sweet.

A beautiful woman smiled down at me, her lavender eyes—my eyes—sparkling with love. “My little prince,” she whispered,reaching for me with elegant hands. Her dark hair fell like silk around her shoulders, and her fangs glinted when she smiled.

Father stood beside her, tall and proud. The Valentine Clan sigil—a blood rose wrapped in thorns—gleamed on his chest. “You’ll be as powerful as your mother someday,” he said, his voice warm with certainty.

But even as he spoke, the bright scene began to darken. Shadows crept across the marble floor like spilled ink. The chandeliers flickered, then went out one by one.

“No,” I whispered, remembering-not-remembering what came next. “Please, no.”

Three figures emerged from the darkness, their eyes gleaming like frozen blood. Lord Dominic Nightshade led them, his aristocratic features carved from marble and cruelty. His perfectly tailored suit seemed to absorb light, the Nightshade Clan’s emblem—a poisoned chalice—bloodred against the black fabric.

Lord Carmille glided at his side, his beauty as delicate and deadly as a poisoned blade. His silver hair floated around him like a ghost’s veil, his smile promising exquisite pain. Every movement was a dance of death, every gesture calculated to enchant and destroy.

Viktor, their enforcer, towered behind them like a mountain of muscle and scars. His massive hands flexed, already reaching for weapons. Unlike his leaders’ cold elegance, Viktor radiated pure brutality.