"Father," I say, sliding into the seat of the limo-like car with all the grace and poise expected of me. The leather seats are impossibly smooth beneath my fingertips, the air inside crisp with the faintest hint of my father's cologne—something expensive and understated, just like him.
This car isn't just a luxury; it's a fortress on wheels. Reinforced with enough layers of defense that it could probably withstand a direct assault from an A-class hunter. Overkill? Maybe. But knowing my father, it makes perfect sense. In a world where power reigns supreme, and raw strength dictates status, he and I are outliers. We're C-class hunters in a world where those with brute force sit at the top. But strength? Strength is relative.
Our strength is money. Influence. The kind of power that doesn't need a blade to cut deep.
Father grunts in acknowledgment but doesn't bother to look up from his tablet, likely scanning through stocks, guild reports, or whatever business deal is currently making someone sweat. I settle in, smoothing out my dress, then pull out my phone.
The event tonight is everywhere. Every social media feed, every news outlet, the livestream already pulling in ridiculous numbers.
I click on the stream out of mild curiosity. The camera captures the grand entrance of none other than Evan Hwan, our dear main character, stepping into the venue with a woman on his arm.
And not just any woman.
The only S-class healer in the fortress. The guildmaster of Sanctum.
Elysia Veridane.
I arch a brow, watching as they walk arm in arm, the comments section already losing its collective mind.
> "Evan looks amazing!!"
"That suit?? THE suit? He really outdid himself."
"Next S-class hunter, mark my words."
"Elysia is so elegant! Such a power couple!"
Ugh. Bla, bla, bla. Predictable. Rising star, prodigy, destined for greatness—all the usual hero-worship nonsense. I barely suppress a yawn.
And then I see it.
A comment that makes me blink, pause, and then snort so loudly my father briefly glances at me in disapproval.
> "Major upgrade from ex-girlfriend Emmaline Morne, unlike her, Elysia is pretty and kind."
Well, excuse me.
Beauty is subjective, but let's get one thing straight—I am stunning. Statues should be carved in my likeness. Artists should weep trying to capture my ethereal glow. And kindness? Sure, maybe I'm not a saint, but I wouldn't call myself unkind—just... selective with my affections.
The audacity. The hilarity.
I smirk, shaking my head. Even after breaking up with Evan, my name still gets dragged into the spotlight. Can't they move on? I have.
The car slows, pulling up to the grand venue entrance. I tuck my phone back into my purse, shifting effortlessly into public persona mode. With one last glance in the mirror to ensure every strand of my hair is still perfectly in place, I exhale slowly, smoothing my expression into something serene, poised. Untouchable.
The car door opens.
My father steps out first, his presence commanding without a single word. The flashing lights from cameras burst into a frenzy, reporters leaning forward, eager to catch any sign of hesitation, any crack in the facade. They'll find none.
He turns slightly and offers his hand. I take it, stepping out of the car with effortless grace, the fabric of my gown trailing behind me like liquid fire.
The flashes intensify. The murmurs ripple through the gathered crowd, reporters scrambling to get a quote, a reaction, anything.
I ignore them all.
Chin lifted, back straight, I walk alongside my father, gliding past the press like they're nothing more than background noise. The cameras capture everything—my poised steps, the confidence in my expression, the slight, knowing smile on my lips.
They wanted a reaction? They won't get one.