Elena didn't sleep. She lay in the vast, cold bed in her luxurious suite, staring at the shifting patterns of city light on the ceiling. The silence was absolute, a vacuum that amplified the echo of Lionel's words.'First, you must learn the rules.'The phrase coiled in her mind, cold and serpentine. What rules? The rules of a world where men healed from gunshot wounds in hours? Where their eyes burned gold with pain?
At precisely 6:45 AM, a soft, melodic chime sounded in her room. A moment later, Marcus's voice, filtered through the same unseen intercom, spoke. "Mr Valerian will see you in the study at seven, Ms Hart."
The formality was a mockery. She was a prisoner with a butler. She dressed in one of the simpler outfits from the curated wardrobe—a pair of tailored black trousers and a grey cashmere sweater. The clothes felt alien on her skin, a uniform of capitulation.
He was waiting for her in the study, standing by the desk, the morning light from the window behind him casting his face in shadow. He held a sleek, black tablet. He didn't greet her.
"Your schedule," he said, his voice devoid of inflexion. He handed her the tablet.
Elena took it. The screen glowed to life, displaying a colour-coded, meticulously planned grid for the upcoming week. Her eyes scanned the entries, disbelief curdling into anger.
7:30 - 9:00 AM: Physical Conditioning (Trainer: Marcus). Location: Private gym, Level 72.
9:15 - 10:45 AM: Art History & Appreciation (Tutor: Dr Aris Thorne). Focus: Gothic Revival to Modern Abstraction.
11:00 - 12:30 PM: Social Etiquette & Protocol (Consultant: Madame Evangeline). Dining, conversation, and international customs.
1:00 - 2:00 PM: Lunch & Review.
2:15 - 4:00 PM: Finance & Global Markets (Briefing: Valerian Holdings Analyst).
4:15 - 6:00 PM: Mandatory Reading & Analysis. Texts: Jane Eyre(Brontë), Selected Tales (Poe), The Economist, Journal of Clinical Haematology.
7:00 PM: Dinner. Attire: As specified.
Evening: Free study / On-call availability.
It went on. Every day was similarly packed, a brutal regimen of intellectual and physical boot camp. There was no mention of nursing, of medical consultation, of the "unique physiological needs" she was hired to address. This was something else entirely.
She looked up from the tablet, her knuckles white around its edges. "What is this?"
"Your education," Lionel replied calmly, moving to stand behind his desk. "The foundation upon which your more… specialized duties will rest."
"My education?" The laugh that escaped her was brittle, harsh. "I have an education. A nursing degree. Years of clinical experience. This… this is finishing school for a doll!"
His expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew several degrees colder. "Your previous education prepared you for a human world. A limited one. This will prepare you for the world. The world you have chosen to enter by signing that contract."
"I chose to be a health consultant!" she shot back, her voice rising. "Not a… a socialite project! I'm not a piece of clay for you to reshape! I'm a nurse!"
For the first time, a flicker of impatience crossed his features. "You are what I require you to be. Social navigation, cultural literacy, and physical resilience—they are not luxuries. They are armour. The people you encounter and the situations you may find yourself in will require more than just a knowledge of triage. To be of use to me, to survive, you must be remade."
"Remade?" The word was a blasphemy. All the frustration, the fear, the violation of the past days erupted. She threw the tablet onto the plush carpet. It landed with a dull, impotent thud. "I am not yours to remake! I'm a person! You bought my time, not my soul!"
His composure was shattered.
It happened so fast that her brain barely registered the movement. One second, he was behind the desk, a figure of cool authority. Next, he was directly in front of her, having crossed the space in a blur of motion that defied physics. The scent of cold air and sandalwood enveloped her.
His hand shot out, his fingers closing firmly but not cruelly under her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her breath caught.
And she saw it. His eyes. The dark grey irises were gone, swallowed by a ring of blazing, molten gold that ignited around his pupils. It was the same terrifying fire from the hospital, but now it burned with cold fury, not agony. In that moment, he was utterly, terrifyingly Other.
"You are mistaken," he said, his voice a low, vibrating growl that seemed to resonate in her bones. The heat of his gaze was at odds with the icy chill of his fingers on her skin. "I bought your expertise, your discretion, and your presence. In this world, in my world, that is your soul for the duration of our contract. You. Are.Mine."
The possessiveness in the word was absolute, primordial. It spoke of centuries of taking what he wanted.
"And I," he continued, the gold in his eyes flickering like banked coals, "take exquisite care of what is mine. I will arm you, educate you, protect you, and yes, remake you into something that can not only endure but thrive in the shadows where I live. This is not a punishment, Elena. It is a privilege you are too naive to appreciate."
He leaned infinitesimally closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that feathered against her lips. "The first rule, the only rule that matters until you learn it, is obedience. Learn it."
He released her chin as abruptly as he had taken it. The gold vanished from his eyes, receding so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it. He took a step back, his demeanour once more that of the controlled, imposing CEO. The transition was as jarring as the initial attack.
Elena stood frozen, her skin tingling where his fingers had been. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. She was trembling—a violent, full-body tremor born of pure, undiluted fear. Fear of his speed, his strength, the monstrous reality she had just glimpsed.
But beneath the fear, coiling in the pit of her stomach, was something else. A traitorous, electric thrill. The thrill of being seen, truly seen, even if as a possession. The thrill of a challenge so vast it dwarfed all her previous struggles. The thrill of his proximity was a dangerous magnetism that cut through her anger, leaving her utterly confused.
He had not hurt her. He had demonstrated, beyond any doubt, that he could. That the rules were his, the power was his, and her defiance was a fiction he allowed only so far.
He looked at her, at her trembling form, and his expression softened by a fraction, into something that might have been pity. "The tablet," he said, his voice now quiet, almost normal. "Pick it up. Your first session with Marcus begins in twenty-three minutes. Do not be late."
He turned and walked back to his desk, dismissing her.
Elena stood there for another ten seconds, the echoes of his growl and the phantom heat of his golden gaze seared into her. Then, slowly, she bent down. Her fingers, still shaking, closed around the cool edge of the tablet. She picked it up.
She had learned the first rule.