Chapter 195 – Overthinking is Overrated
Lux stood there, wind teasing the hem of his shirt as the late morning sun stretched lazily across the city skyline.
The sky was a crisp gradient of pale sapphire to soft gold, bright but not blinding—like the world hadn’t yet decided whether today would be kind or cruel.
He sighed. Then muttered, "She knew my number?"
He fished out his phone and—yeah.
There it was.
Text from an unknown number.
He raised an eyebrow.
Unknown? Sure. But rich-girl bold enough to do this? There was only one na attached to that level of audacity wrapped in encryption.
Mira.
Xianlong.
"Can’t underestimate dragon heiresses," he muttered, unlocking the screen.
The text was... long.
Too long.
Lux blinked at it.
This wasn’t a ssage. This was a thesis. An illegal wall of words that should’ve been an email, possibly a letter sealed with dragon wax and a legal waiver.
But nope. She sent it as a text.
Lux scrolled. Scrolled again. Swore under his breath.
The ssage read:
Today. Antique Exhibition. Private invitation only. I’ll be there in an hour. So will you.
I’ve already arranged for transportation. My underlings will pick you up at your suite entrance in 45 minutes. You can wear whatever you want, but try not to outshine the antiques—we both know you will anyway.
I want your eyes on the collection.
Your particular eyes.
The sa ones that knew the Phoenix Egg was fake before anyone else blinked. Don’t bother pretending that wasn’t you. I saw your face during the fallout. The tilt of your chin. The satisfaction you didn’t hide. Classic.
Don’t worry—I’m not here to report you.
I admire it.
You dismantled a billion-coin lie with a twitch of your eyebrow.
I want that. I want you—not like that, calm down—to accompany .
You know relics. You know power. And I’m tired of hearing self-important experts lie to with trembling fingers and bad breath.
No yes or no.
You’re coming.
It’s already arranged.
Don’t be late.
—M
-----
Lux lowered the phone slowly, mouth twisting into a reluctant grin.
"This woman..."
He laughed, but it wasn’t light. More like ’are you kidding , why does the universe hate ’ laughter. The kind he used in high-level boardroom etings when the other demons thought they were being subtle with their assassination attempts.
"She definitely has sothing with pride."
The tone. The command. The I-don’t-wait-for-confirmation style of ssaging.
Just like...
Lux went quiet.
Sira.
Daughter of the Pride Lord. Chaos in heels. Political seductress. A walking, talking catastrophe wrapped in velvet and veiled smiles. The girl who might—or might not—want him dead. Or as a toy. Or as a husband. Or a trophy. Or a mory. Possibly all of the above, depending on the ti of day.
Lux rubbed his temple.
’Sira...’
Yeah. That was a na that still gave him migraines.
Lux had no idea if she liked him, hated him, or wanted to sell his soul in a boutique glass jar labeled limited edition.
"Damn it, Sira..." he muttered, pacing back inside.
[Sir, your paranoia is adorable.]
"I’m serious," Lux snapped. "She sounded like her. I wonder if this is her trap."
[That would be inconvenient.]
Lux rolled his eyes. "Okay, overthinking is overrated. Let’s date the dragon heiress first and worry about insane pride princesses later."
He paused mid-stride, the thought hitting him sideways.
Rava.
Shit.
His lips twitched in guilt. The last ti he saw her, things had been... good. Honest. Fiery in the best way.
"Maybe I should text her?"
And it wasn’t like he didn’t want to reach out. He did. But—
Well, devils didn’t text.
If they missed soone, they showed up. They appeared.
They stepped through shadows, cracked mirrors, dinsional pockets, or just kicked open the door mid-eting and said, "Hey. I need a quickie. Give ten minutes—I’ll be fast."
Yup. Mortal world etiquette didn’t support that.
He grabbed his phone again and stared at the screen like it personally offended him.
"Text it is."
He typed. Slowly. Like a grandpa trying to input his soul code into a divine vending machine.
Lux: Hey. How are you today, sweetheart? I might be going on a date with a dragon heiress for antique fraud reasons. Miss you, though. Let’s talk soon? Maybe a tentacle hug later?
He stared at the ssage for a solid twenty seconds.
[That was impressively awkward.]
"Shut up."
Lux tossed the phone onto the bed like it had personally betrayed him and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
Yeah, what Lux did know—after a few centuries navigating infernal politics, hostile takeovers, and divine lawsuits—was how to send formal ssages. Contract-bound summons. Threat-laced business mos. Incredibly polite death notices.
He could draft an arbitration clause in nine languages, four of which were extinct. He once wrote a refusal letter to an archduchess entirely in legal terms, for a simple dinner and she thanked him for the clarity.
But a ssage to a girlfriend? A real girlfriend?
Never.
Only with Naomi. And even then, it was barely a handful of texts. Usually short. Mostly logistical.
He sat back on the bed with a quiet groan.
"I can run Hell’s treasury but I can’t hit ’send’ without an existential crisis."
But, he picked the phone up and hit send anyway.
For a devil who supposedly owned a hell-tier corporate empire and could make a room full of succubi sign NDAs with a wink, texting one girl shouldn’t feel this hard.
But here he was.
Between dragon dates and demonic chess matches, worried about a kraken girl’s unread ssages.
"You’re soft," he muttered to himself.
[Technically, you’re in Vacation Mode. Emotional response allowance is within permitted paraters.]
He groaned.
And that was when his door buzzed.
[ETA confird. Xianlong transport has arrived.]
Of course, they were early.
Lux rose with a sigh, adjusted his collar, and slipped into his obsidian silk jacket—tailored, tapered, and built to hide weapons he didn’t carry. He crossed to the mirror, gave himself a once-over, then grabbed the cologne bottle on the marble counter.
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