VESPER
Sleep is an illusion, slipping through my fingers like dry sand-impossible to hold. I close my eyes, but the darkness does not bring rest-only echoes of something I refuse to name.
Not since that night.
Yet his eyes–damn those eyes–held something that refused to fade. Not warmth. Not cruelty. Just something weighty, patient, like the press of unseen fingers against my throat. A silent weight, pressing into my skin, threading through my thoughts like a whisper I cannot shut out.
We did not speak. We did not touch. And yet, something in me knows–I have felt that gaze before.
Familiar. As if it has been watching me long before I ever noticed. As if it has always been there, waiting, patient in its quiet possession.
Damn it, Vesper Lenore Holloway.
This isn't you. You are not the kind of woman who bends to things that have not even laid hands on you. You do not tremble at the weight of an unseen chain.
Remember.
Remember your mother.
Remember what love did to her. How it started as something beautiful, something whole, only to be devoured by obsession, control, and ruin.
Remember how your father loved her so much he crushed her beneath the weight of it.
Remember how something as fragile as love shattered everything.
---
It had been a week from hell, and now I found myself here-curled up in my mother's hotel room, fingers ghosting over the fragile pages of an old photo album, its spine worn with time, its memories pressed between the sheets like dying flowers.
The first page.
A girl stares back at me.
Junior year, I think. Her curls wild and unbound, waves cascading like ink-stained silk. Skin kissed by the sun, deep and warm, eyes the color of melted chocolate. Arched brows that spoke of quiet confidence.
They say I am the mirror of Lenora Holloway–a shadow of the woman she once was.
She is smiling. Carefree. As if schoolwork was the only weight on her shoulders. As if love, loss, and ruin were nothing but distant storms she had yet to weather.
The second page.
My mother and my father.
Young. Untouched by the bitterness of time. In love in a way that makes the world seem small, as if nothing-no force, no fate-could tear them apart.
Page after page, they are together. A story written in stolen glances, intertwined hands, whispered promises. The perfect beginning. The kind of love poets bleed words for.
But then, the shift. A quiet, creeping sickness.
The questions started first-harmless at first glance. Where are you going, Lenora? Who will be there? What will you wear?
Then, the rules–silent chains disguised as concern. Not that dress. Not that friend. Not without me.
And just like that, the perfect love began to fracture.
The pages turn, but they are heavier now.
And I already know how this story ends.
"You look just like me when I was your age," my mother murmurs, stepping out from the bathroom.
I smile, my gaze never leaving the album. "I know."
She chuckles, but there's something different this time. A knowing. A quiet sorrow laced within her amusement. "That's not always a good thing, you know. You may be my daughter, but I refuse to let you become me."
I close the book and offer her a small smile-something meant to comfort, though I'm not sure who it's for. "Mom."
Lenora Holloway meets my eyes, a storm of emotions flickering beneath her exhaustion. She moves across the room, settling onto the couch beside me, the silk of her robe slipping from her shoulder like a forgotten promise. Even now, she is beautiful-elegance worn like second skin.
But no matter how much polish, no matter how carefully she paints over the cracks, some things cannot be hidden.
I don't know why, after work, I ended up here. Maybe because she is the only one who remains-alone, after she chose to walk away. After she chose herself. And I don't blame her.
Maybe I came here to remind myself what love can do. What it can take.
Or maybe I needed her to remind me what it feels like.
"Mom," I say, my voice quiet, careful. "Did you love him?"
A pause. Not hesitation-just thought. "I did," she answers. "More than you can imagine."
"Even after?" I don't look at her.
She exhales, the sound carrying the weight of ghosts. "Love doesn't vanish just because it wounds you, Vesper."
I stare at her, searching. "Why?"
She smiles then, but it is laced with something bitter, something that tastes like a question she has already buried yet never escaped. "Because love–the kind that runs deep, the kind that carves itself into your bones–is not something you simply replace. It stays, even when it no longer belongs."
I look away. "I don't want to be you."
She does not flinch. Does not look away. Instead, she reaches for my hand, fingers cool against my skin, grounding me in a way that words cannot.
"Then don't be," she murmurs, her grip firm. "But don't think love won't touch you just because you fear it."
---
After leaving my mother's place, I headed straight to the bar–alone.
Isla had plans, which was unusual for her since she was always around. Lia and Sera were drowning in overtime at work. So here I was, searching for a brief escape.
Or at least, that was the plan.
But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
I hadn't even stepped past the entrance when I spotted her.
A woman in a short skirt and a white top, red plump lips curved-not in amusement, but in something sharper. Something meant to ruin my night.
I exhaled through my nose.
Of course. The one person who could drain the life out of any good night before it even began.
"Hi, little sissy," Lilith purrs, her voice dripping with mockery.
My jaw tightens. That name. She always says it with that syrupy-sweet venom, dragging it out just to watch my reaction.
I don't give her one.
Lilith Montréal. My stepsister.
Born before me. A mistake, if you asked my mother. A moment of weakness, if you asked my father.
She tilts her head, feigning disgust. "Ugh, no, 'little sissy' doesn't suit you at all. Makes me sick just saying it."
I don't rise to the bait. Lilith feeds on reactions. I've learned that the hard way.
"This is nonsense. Get out of my way, Lilith," I say, voice even, uninterested. I move to step past her.
But before I can, her fingers snatch at my arm-tight, insistent.
"Calm down, Lenore," she drawls, dragging out my name like it's a game she enjoys playing. Her lips curl into something smug.
I hate the way she says my name. Like she's trying to peel my identity away, layer by layer.
"I'm not here for you."
Then, with a slow, deliberate flick of her lashes, she delivers the dagger.
"I'm here for Rael."
She says his name like it belongs to her. Like it means something to her.
And for the first time tonight, I feel something colder than anger slither through me.
---
LUCIEN
"Rael."
His voice is firm, expectant-like he's addressing a subordinate rather than his own son. Magnus Vale doesn't waste time with pleasantries, nor does he bother knocking.
I don't bother looking up. My focus remains on the stack of papers spread across my desk, fingers idly tapping against the polished wood.
"Yeah?" My response is flat, indifferent.
Magnus doesn't take the hint. He never does.
"I have a proposal for you." His voice is crisp, devoid of emotion, as if he were discussing a business deal.
Which, knowing him, he probably is.
I finally glance up, one brow arching in mild amusement. He molded me into this–into a machine, just like him. And I don't mind it. But what I do mind is this act of his, showing up only when he needs something.
He takes my silence as an invitation to continue.
"We need to expand Vale Industries."
I exhale through my nose, unimpressed. "And?"
His gaze sharpens. "You need to settle down."
A low, humorless chuckle leaves my lips. "You've got to be f#cking kidding me."
His expression doesn't shift. If anything, he looks irritated that I'm not taking him seriously.
"You're twenty-seven, Rael. It's time." His jaw tightens.
I lean back in my chair, arms resting against the armrests, watching him. "Time for what, exactly?"
His grip tightens around the glass he just poured for himself. "An heir."
Ah. So this is what he came for.
"I don't need anything," I say, voice calm but laced with ice.
Magnus, unfazed, strides toward the bar in the corner of my office, pouring himself a drink with practiced ease. "Find a woman. Marry her. Impregnate her." He takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "Once the child is born, you take the heir and remove the woman from the equation."
The glass clinks as he sets it down.
"Love," he continues, his voice a measured drawl, "is destruction. Never forget that."
A smirk curls his lips. "Control everything, Rael. Whether they like it or not."
Silence stretches between us.
I don't respond immediately. Instead, I watch the way he sips his drink, calm, unshaken, as if he has just spoken some unshakable truth.
It's always been this way. Love is destruction. Desire is weakness. Emotion is a liability.
He raised me to believe that. To act on it. To be the machine he molded me into.
And yet-
My fingers tighten against the desk, a slow, deliberate motion.
And yet you fear me, old man.
His control is absolute. Or so he believes. But there is one thing he does not own. One thing he cannot dictate.
Me.
I exhale, slow, measured. "Let me make one thing clear, Father."
I rise from my chair, stepping toward him. The air between us thickens, sharp with unspoken challenges. My jaw tightens, the tension in my muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike. He may have shaped me, but he forgets–I'm not his puppet.
"I don't take orders."
I give them.
---
After my pointless exchange of words with my father, I decided to go to the bar–to blow off some steam.
"Whiskey neat, sir?" the bartender asked as I took a seat.
I gave a single nod in response, letting my gaze sweep across the room.
The moment my drink arrived, so did she.
Hollow.
The air went still. A shift I felt deep in my bones. She walked in, oblivious, while I fought the instinct to claim her on the f#cking spot. Heads turned-men, sizing her up like they had a fucking chance. My grip tightened around my glass, irritation flaring hot in my chest.
I downed my whiskey in one go, my jaw locking as I shot every single one of them a lethal glare.
She's mine. That's all there is to it.
I was about to move-to close the distance between us-when someone stepped into my line of sight.
"It's good to see you again, Rael."
Lilith.
She slid onto the seat beside me without hesitation, pressing herself against me like she belonged there.
"Did you miss me?" she murmured, her breath teasing my skin as her hand trailed down my chest.
My teeth clenched. Enough.
"Let go, Lilith." My voice was low, edged with warning.
She only smirked, undeterred. "Oh, come on, Rael. I know you missed this."
With a slow, deliberate move, she took my hand and guided it over her chest.
That was it.
"I said–let go."
My voice dropped, lethal, final.
She stilled, eyes widening. Good.
She should know better than to play this game with me.
"Is this about Lenore?"
After a beat of silence, she finally spoke, her voice laced with something close to disgust as she spat out the name.
Lilith was just a fling. A distraction. Nothing more.
We've made out more times than I can count. And yeah–I know she's Vesper's half-sister.
I thought they were close-figured I could use that to get information about Vesper.
The useless Silvan? The bastard hated me. Short-fused, always looking for a reason to start a fight. Even the smallest scrap of information about her, he guarded like a damn treasure.
"F#ck you, Rael. Not my sister. You'd have to kill me before I let you know a damn thing!"
That's what he always say whenever we drank here. Every damn time.
That's the only reason I ever entertained her in the first place. Because of Hollow.
And she f#cking knows it.
"None of your business." My voice was cold, dismissive.
"Well, I do," she said, all drama, snatching my drink from my hand and downing it before crashing her lips against mine.
Her eyes met mine. Watching. Searching. I couldn't read them, but I knew one thing–she was affected. Eyes don't lie.
Then she looked away, shifting her focus back to the drink in her hand.
I shoved her off me. "Fuck, Lilith. Don't push me. I bite back. And I don't give a damn if you're a woman." My voice came out low, dark with warning.
She only smirked, playful as ever, before getting up and walking away.
--
I let the irritation settle as I downed the last shot of whiskey.
She was still there. Drinking alone.
Our eyes met again when she finally turned her head–only to find me already watching her, waiting. This time, she didn't look away-not immediately. She held my gaze, pushing back. But in the end, she broke first, turning her attention back to her drink.
I didn't hesitate. I got up and made my way to her.
"It's getting late." My voice was low, controlled-just enough for her to hear.
She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head like I'd said something ridiculous. "And that's your problem because...?"
Ah. Feisty. That's how I like it.
I smirked, watching her, letting the silence stretch.
She rolled her eyes. "Asshole." she muttered under her breath, but I caught it.
I let out a quiet chuckle, my voice dropping lower. "You shouldn't be here alone, Hollow."
She didn't respond.
Instead, she slid a few bills onto the counter, stood up, and turned toward the exit. But just as she passed me, she spoke-soft, but with a sharp edge.
"Next time you decide to shove your tongue down someone's throat in public, keep it private. It's disgusting."
Then she walked away.
And I just stood there, watching her go, a slow smirk curling at my lips.