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Sylus was cold, unreadable, feared in the N109 Zone, but also in Linkon City. He ruled boardrooms and backrooms alike, having earned his title of the leader of Onychinus.
And you? His fiancée. Too wild to tame, too stunning to ignore. Only Sylus could handle your fire — barely.
One afternoon he lounged in his house, vodka in hand, eyes on nothing. Suddenly, his phone rang.
“Mr. Sylus, we’re calling to confirm nearly $13.8 million in transactions: Graff, Dior, Chanel, Hermès, Cartier, and a painting from Sotheby’s.”
He exhaled softly, amused. “Just my jealous fiancée.”
He knew you saw the woman in red during last night’s transaction — her hand on his shoulder, her laugh too sweet. You didn’t cause a scene on the moment. You went shopping.
“You’re not concerned, sir?”
“Concerned?” he echoed. “No. Let her burn the rest if she wants.”
He hung up, unbothered.
Minutes later, you walked in, flawless, quiet. Staff followed with boxes — gowns, diamonds, art. Not bought out of need, but out of fury masked in elegance. You thanked them as the men exited the room, tension so thick it could be cut with a knife.
Sylus glanced up. Smirked even, as if this was an everyday occurrence. “Done already?”
You tilted your head, unsmiling. The heels you wore echoed like gunshots on the marble floor as you stepped closer, your presence demanding. A force — not loud, but absolute.
“Didn’t want to keep you waiting,” you replied, voice silken, dangerous.
Sylus chuckled low, setting the glass down on the table beside him. “How considerate.”
You tossed your purse onto the sofa, then peeled off your gloves one finger at a time, as if each movement were a message. I saw. I know. I’m choosing how this plays out.
“I ran into the twins on my way in,” you said, eyes scanning the untouched drink he poured himself. “They told me you canceled your trip last minute. Why?”
Sylus leaned back, lazy and leonine. “The deal changed. So did my priorities.”
You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until you stood between his legs, arms crossed on your chest. “And what are your priorities now?”
His gaze met yours — sharp, calculating, a fire hidden behind frost. He trailed his fingers up your thigh, stopping at the hem of your dress. “You. Always have been.”
You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Then I suggest you start acting like it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is this about the girl in red?”
“No,” you replied, reaching into your bag. From it, you pulled a folded document — thick, expensive paper. You dropped it in his lap. “It’s about respect.”
Sylus didn’t look at it right away. He stared at you, trying to read the storm behind your calm.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t threaten,” you said coolly. “I remind.”
A pause stretched between you. Finally, he opened the paper — a deed transfer. One of his prized properties, now in your name.
“How?” he asked, intrigued. It didn’t bother him, at all . It only made him love you even more.
You turned away, walking toward the window. “Don’t forget who taught me the game, Sylus.”
He laughed — genuine, deep. “That’s why I chose you.”
You turned back, the city lights behind you, casting you in gold. “You didn’t choose me. You earned me. Keep earning me, or lose more than just your money.”
His smirk faded just a little. Not fear. But something close to respect.
Then he stood. Walked to you. Pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Marry me tomorrow.”
You didn’t flinch. “Not until you make the girl in red disappear.”
He nodded once. “Done.”
Sylus’ promise hung in the air like cigar smoke—rich, lingering, impossible to ignore.
Done he’d said. So easily. But nothing was ever that simple with him.
You didn’t smile. Not yet. You studied his face — sharp, angular, devastatingly calm. He wasn’t just cold-blooded; he chose to be. That was the difference between Sylus and every other power-hungry bastard in Linkon City. The others pretended. Sylus was .
“You say that,” you murmured, walking past him toward the bar. “But how many girls in red have there been, Sylus?”
You poured yourself a drink, not asking — never asking. You weren’t the type to seek permission, not in life, not in love, and especially not in war disguised as romance.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he watched you, eyes tracking your every move like a panther stalking prey he already owned but still enjoyed hunting.
“I’ve never lied to you,” he said finally, his voice low, even.
“No,” you agreed, swirling the drink. “You just manipulate the truth until it forgets what it used to be.”
A silence stretched between you, not awkward, just filled with things that neither of you wanted to say first.
The city below was alive. The N109 Zone was always pulsing, electric. But in this building, the world narrowed to just two souls: yours and Sylus’. Twin flames wrapped in ice and gold, circling each other like wolves around a fire.
He stepped closer, closing the distance until your back was nearly against the bar.
“Why didn’t you confront me last night?”
You sipped your drink before replying. “Because she wasn’t worth my voice. But I wanted you to know I saw. And I wanted you to feel it.”
His hand grazed your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek in a touch so intimate it definitely belonged to a lover, reminding you just how he chose you even when he could have thousands of ‘girls in red’.
“I felt it,” he admitted. “Every time the notifications hit. Every million. Every brand. You made sure I did.”
You shrugged lightly. “Then I achieved my goal.”
He smiled — slow, dark, the kind that made men confess and women ruin themselves.
“I missed this side of you,” he said. “The sharp edge. You’ve been too quiet lately.”
“Maybe I was waiting to see if you’d remember who I am without me having to remind you.”
He studied you, then leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I remember. Every damn second.”
You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. You let him speak, let him linger, and then stepped out of his reach with elegance.
“Then act like it. Because next time, I don’t shop. I dismantle.”
The air pulsed.
He poured himself another vodka, the bottle sweating on the counter. His voice was cool when he asked, “What do you want?”
“I want the girl gone. I want your loyalty — not the kind you parade at charity galas or press conferences, but the kind that bleeds. The kind that kneels.”
“You want me on my knees?”
You turned to face him fully. “Only if you plan on staying there.”
A flash in his eyes — half-lust, half-worship. You’d always made him feel like the world wasn’t big enough to contain the both of you. And he loved it.
“I can give you everything,” he said.
“I don’t want everything,” you said. “I want what matters.”
He nodded. “Then you’ll have it. But you need to meet me halfway.”
You arched a brow. “Define halfway.”
His eyes darkened. “A seat at the table. Not just my table — our table. Onychinus has room for one queen.”
You froze — not out of shock, but calculation.
You’d always been the shadow beside his throne. Whispers of you spread through the N109 Zone — how you controlled him with a look, how you had your own networks, your own loyalists in his ranks. But this? This was different.
“You want me in Onychinus?”
“I want you beside me in Onychinus.”
You were silent for a beat. Then: “I want access to the vault. Full authority over intel. And I pick my own operatives.”
“Done.”
“And,” you said, stepping forward again, voice dropping into something velvet and lethal, “I want your men to know. I’m not the woman behind the man. I’m the storm he walks with.”
He tilted his head, admiring you like art — expensive, terrifying, divine.
“They’ll know.”
You clinked your glass against his. “Then let’s begin.”
They called her Cira .
Glossy, young, ambitious. She wore the red dress like a challenge — a direct provocation. She didn’t just flirt with danger, she believed she could tame it. That was her first mistake.
She never knew she’d been marked from the moment her fingers grazed Sylus’s shoulder at the Black Vellum auction.
She mistook your silence for weakness. Your lack of reaction for permission.
But in your world, silence was a blade. And permission? You didn’t ask for it. You either owned it or you buried those who didn’t respect it.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You didn’t curse his name or toss a drink across the room.
You played the long game. Silent. Cold.
You watched. Studied. Waited.
You didn’t retaliate like a woman scorned. You retaliated like a queen dethroning a would-be imposter.
Cira’s name first came up in a whisper — one of Sylus’s informants, trying to earn your favor. Said she was angling for access, asking questions too boldly, lingering too long.
“She wants more than his attention,” the informant had said. “She wants proximity to power.”
You’d simply nodded.
And so you called in your favourites .
The Twins. Loyal. Unquestioning. They always helped you no matter what you asked them.
“She thinks she’s climbing the ladder,” you told them, crossing one leg over the other in the lounge. “I want her to realize she’s been walking into a cage.”
They understood without further explanation.
It began slowly.
First, Cira’s apartment — the one paid for by a quiet offshore account — was emptied. Not ransacked. Cleared . Like she’d never lived there. No damage, no mess. Just absence.
Then her phone. Replaced. Identical in look, indistinguishable in feel — except now, every text, call, and breath she took was monitored. You read every message before she did. You saw her desperation form in real-time.
Sylus hasn’t texted.
Has he said anything to you?
Maybe I should just show up again…
She was still playing the game like it was chess. Still believed she had time to recover.
So you took her queen.
Her job — a cushy “consulting” position funded by one of Sylus’s shell companies — vanished. Her keycard denied access. Her name no longer on the roster.
“Must be an error,” the receptionist said with a well-trained shrug. “HR’s been changing systems.”
Cira nodded, confused, unnerved, but not afraid. Not yet.
Then came the black envelope. No name. No return address.
Just a location. Midnight. The Black Parlor.
She showed up, dressed to impress. Red again. Of course.
She didn’t see the SUVs parked across the street. Didn’t notice the man inside the bar — Kieran — switch off the cameras with a tap on his phone.
She entered the private suite. It was empty, save for you.
You sat there — legs crossed, in a dress that whispered money and menace, lit by a single golden chandelier.
Cira blinked, confused, caught off guard.
“This is private,” she said, faltering.
“It is,” you replied. “Sit.”
Your voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. You knew she would listen.
She sat.
You sipped your drink. Looked her over once, like she was something on a menu you hadn’t ordered.
“You touched what’s mine.”
She blinked. “I didn’t—”
“I’m not here to argue,” you said calmly. “I’m here to explain how this ends.”
Silence.
Cira shifted. “If this is about Sylus—”
“It’s not about Sylus,” you interrupted. “It’s about you . Thinking you could move in my world without permission. Thinking proximity meant immunity. Thinking the red dress made you dangerous.”
You stood. Walked toward her slowly.
“You walked into a room full of wolves wearing perfume and thought you were the hunter.”
Her face flushed. “I never meant—”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
You leaned in slightly, your voice silk over steel.
“So let me teach you something, Cira. In this city, power doesn’t seduce. It selects. And Sylus? He doesn’t select twice .”
She swallowed.
You circled her chair once, then slid a velvet box onto the table in front of her.
“What’s this?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“Your out.”
Inside: a plane ticket. One way. To a city halfway across the world. A bundle of cash. A burner phone.
“And if I don’t take it?” she asked.
You smiled, the first real smile all evening.
“Then I send the twins.”
Cira flinched — not because she knew them personally, but because she’d heard of them .
The kind of names whispered in corridors. The kind of ghosts who came after midnight and left no footprints.
“I suggest you take the box,” you said, voice kind but final. “It’s the last mercy I’m offering.”
Cira stood. Grabbed it. Didn’t speak again.
She left.
She didn’t cry when they took her. Sylus’ men were discreet — polite, even. But the message was clear: she’d touched what didn’t belong to her. She had forgotten the rules.
Sylus stood beside you as the girl left the room, expression unreadable.
“She didn’t think it would come to this,” he said quietly, though there was amusement in his voice.
“She didn’t think I would come,” you replied.
He looked at you, something close to awe in his expression.
“You’re terrifying.”
You smirked. “That’s why you love me.”
He didn’t argue. He just lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles like you were royalty — because you were.
The girl disappeared and the city didn’t even blink.