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O ne would have thought that waking up as a vampire prince in an alternate reality would have come with some sort of instruction manual—a helpful guide to navigating one’s new supernatural corporate empire, perhaps. Alas, no such luck.

After my library adventure—and minor collision with an unfairly attractive brother—I had decided to do what any reasonable person would do: explore the massive skyscraper I apparently called home.

The Whitlock Tower wasn’t merely a building; it was its own gleaming ecosystem.

Sixty-eight floors of corporate dominance, where the Whitlock Group exercised their influence over… well, everything.

Real estate. Technology. Fashion. Hospitality. If it generated wealth or power, the Whitlocks had mastered it. The scope of their empire made my former company’s quarterly reports look like a child’s lemonade stand accounting.

Thanks to my newfound vampire stealth abilities—and possibly months of avoiding my previous boss—I had managed to explore undetected.

Or so I thought. In my defense, vampire grace only functioned when one wasn’t thoroughly distracted by the overwhelming scent of three ridiculously attractive brothers that seemed to permeate every floor.

Zane’s scent had dominated the executive suites—rich musk and amber that made my new fangs ache with its sophisticated power.

Ryker’s warm spice and bergamot had lingered in the financial wing, and Archer’s playful citrus and sunshine had danced through the marketing department.

It was like following an intoxicating treasure map where X marked “here be devastatingly handsome brothers whose blood smells like the finest vintage.”

I had maintained my composure admirably until I reached the 67th floor and encountered the marketing team struggling with their Beyond Beauty presentation.

The same presentation I’d mastered in my world, except here they were missing every crucial mark.

Their demographic analysis wandered aimlessly, their market positioning lacked focus, and their visuals…

“It needs more sparkle,” I had murmured before sense could prevail. “Elegant sparkle—like diamonds in moonlight, not a nightclub’s desperate attempt at glamour…”

And that’s when Archer had materialized behind me like some aristocratic wolf-ninja, and apparently surprise made baby vampires float. A rather crucial detail omitted from all vampire lore I’d previously encountered.

Now here I sat, curled in what was apparently my private sitting room and drinking AB negative from a crystal bottle with a lavender straw, while Archer watched me with unsettling intensity. Benedict hovered nearby, likely ensuring I neither floated off again nor discovered new walls to crash into.

“You’re supposed to finish all of it,” Archer reminded me, his silver eyes tracking every movement. “And do stop eyeing that door. I can literally hear you contemplating escape.”

I wasn’t contemplating escape. I was considering a strategic withdrawal—an entirely different matter.

“I’m perfectly fine,” I demurred around my straw, trying desperately to ignore how his scent filled the room, making my fangs tingle. “Really. You needn’t watch me drink.”

“Sugar fang, you were floating.”

“That was… entirely intentional. Practice for… supernatural grace?”

His raised eyebrow could have taught masterclasses in skepticism. “Indeed. And the marketing critique?”

I sank deeper into my armchair. “I have no idea what you mean. I was merely… appreciating their typography choices?”

“Of course.” Archer had leaned forward, and heaven help me, his scent intensified. “So you weren’t about to inform them their demographic targeting was misaligned and their market segmentation required substantial refinement?”

“…perhaps?”

How did one explain to an unfairly attractive not actually related brother that such knowledge stemmed from an alternate reality where one survived on instant noodles and excessive overtime? Asking for a thoroughly confused, occasionally floating acquaintance.

“I’m really glad you came out today,” Archer said warmly, his usual playful grin softening into something genuine. “You know, I’ve been leaving my best jokes under your door for years. All those amazing puns, wasted!”

Right. The old Luca—the real Luca—spent his days hiding in his room, not wandering the company halls or floating in front of marketing teams.

I straightened my spine, trying to channel some proper vampire prince energy. “I apologize for the floating incident…”

“That floating thing was interesting,” Archer’s face lit up with curiosity.

“And don’t worry, I’ll gladly be your designated catcher anytime you decide to defy gravity.

” He tilted his head, considering. “Though I wonder if it’s a vampire thing?

Maybe you’re coming into your powers? Like how we wolves get our first shift…

” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Maybe we should ask the Blackthorns about it? They might know if this is normal for young vampires.”

His genuine concern was touching, making it impossible to maintain any formal distance. Even if his solution to potential vampire floating issues seemed to mainly involve him being ready to catch me at any moment.

Luca Valentine’s memories surfaced: The Blackthorns.

New Vale’s most powerful vampire clan, with their black rose emblem and aristocratic bearing.

Like the other twelve major clans that ruled New Vale, they stood head and shoulders above the dozens of smaller supernatural families in the city.

The Valentine Clan had been like that in Dark Haven—one of many minor vampire families living under the rule of more powerful clans.

Until they were destroyed, caught in the crossfire of Dark Haven’s ruthless politics, where the strong devoured the weak without mercy.

Through his memories, I felt the bone-deep fear of those final days, the desperate flight to New Vale, the relief when the Whitlocks took him in.

I wondered what the Blackthorns might make of me now, the sole survivor of a minor clan from their rival city, somehow under the protection of the mighty Whitlock wolves.

Would they see me as a curiosity? A potential ward?

Or just another reminder of how differently the two cities handled their supernatural politics?

I took a sip from my blood bottle, grateful for the momentary distraction from these heavy thoughts. But even the rich liquid couldn’t fully quiet my awareness of Archer’s concerned gaze—my adopted brother who was so ready to help, even with things he didn’t understand.

Archer rose from his chair, and the movement sent another wave of his citrus and sunshine scent washing over me.

My fangs throbbed in response. “Well, now that you’ve finished your lunch…

” He picked up my empty bottle with a satisfied nod.

“Maybe next time you’ll join us properly?

The twins have been dying to spend time with you. ”

I managed what I hoped was a noncommittal noise that could pass for either agreement or demure rejection. Speaking felt dangerous when all I could think about was how his pulse beat strong and steady at his throat.

“Rest well, sugar fang.” He paused at the door, that brilliant smile flashing again. “And do try to stay earthbound?”

Only when the door closed behind him did I let myself collapse back into the armchair, exhaling a breath I didn’t need but apparently had been holding anyway.

“That was… interesting, Prince Luca,” Benedict observed diplomatically from his corner.

I groaned into a throw pillow. “Is it always like this? When they’re around? This… overwhelming?”

“Like what, Prince?”

Like their mere presence makes me want to sink my fangs into their throats and never let go. But I couldn’t say that. Instead, I waved vaguely at the air. “The scents. The… intensity.”

“Ah.” Benedict’s tone held something I couldn’t quite decipher. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding them? The intensity?”

I peeked over my pillow at him. Was that what everyone thought? That the old Luca hid away because their presence was too overwhelming? Because he couldn’t resist the call of their blood?

It would make sense—explain his self-imposed isolation, his careful distance. If he felt even a fraction of this burning need…

But something about that explanation felt wrong. Like I was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

A soft knock interrupted my musings, followed by two unfamiliar heads peeking around my door—one with bouncing golden curls, the other with carefully styled dark hair.

They were young, maybe sixteen, wearing matching blue and silver uniforms with what I assumed was the Whitlock Academy crest on their blazers.

My heart stuttered. The old Luca’s memories filtered through like a distant dream: Sylvie and Hunter.

The twins. Uncle Owen and Aunt Senna’s children.

More memories surfaced—fashion magazines slipped under his door, video game recommendations on Post-it notes, quiet voices in the hallway asking if he wanted company.

Uncle Owen and Aunt Senna. I hadn’t even met them yet. The thought made my chest ache. In my old life, I’d spent countless nights dreaming of having a family—parents, siblings, cousins. Now here they were, and I had no idea how to act around them.

“Luca?” The girl—Sylvie—spoke with hesitant hope. “We just got back from school…”

“Advanced combat and etiquette was brutal today,” Hunter added, fiddling with his tie.

I found myself staring, drinking in details the old Luca had only glimpsed through barely opened doors. Sylvie’s golden curls must come from Aunt Senna, while Hunter’s sharp features reminded me of the formal portrait I’d seen of Uncle Owen in the library.

They hovered in the doorway, and I realized I’d been quiet too long, probably making them as nervous as I felt. The old Luca would have sent them away. Would have hidden behind his walls, safe in his solitude.