Beneath Velvet Poison
Pearl, Starlight Tower.
The presidential suite on the top floor—was soaked in amber light and quiet decadence.
Crystal lamps shimred above imported carpets. A city of neon stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, Woodland’s midnight skyline glittering like cold jewels scattered across black silk.
At the center of that luxurious silence, Lucas sat alone beside the window, gently swirling a glass of red wine.
The wine moved in slow crimson circles.
So did his thoughts.
His face still had a hint of pallor, but his body had recovered quite a bit.
Recovered... but not forgotten.
His blue eyes narrowed.
That punch.
That impossible punch.
Even now, when his fingers tightened around the stem of the glass, phantom pain stirred in his chest.
The injury from that punch a few days ago was indeed severe, leaving him with lingering fear.
Fear.
The word irritated him.
Lucas did not like admitting such emotions even to himself.
Yet every ti he rembered Julian D’Aurelius’ final strike—that absurd Chaotic Punch that had torn through his defenses and rattled his organs—his nerves tightened.
It had not rely hurt.
It had shaken certainty.
"How..." he muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper. "How does a wastrel keep pulling monsters out of thin air?"
He drank.
The wine burned pleasantly.
But not enough to erase mory.
Then a syrupy voice drifted across the room.
"Lucas, I heard you’re good at dicine. My shoulder feels uncomfortable, could you give a massage?"
At this mont, a woman sitting across from him coquettishly called out.
Lucas turned.
And nearly lost his appetite.
The woman wasn’t exactly a beauty, but she was at least humanoid.
Her body was layered with fat, resembling a Michelin tire person.
Jewelry glead on nearly every finger. Gold bracelets clinked when she moved. Perfu heavy enough to suffocate a horse lingered in the room.
This was President Thalia, owner of Starlight Group.
Just hearing her na would easily make one think she was a stunning beauty.
Unfortunately, the difference between her na and her appearance was too great.
Still—power had its own form of attractiveness.
And Lucas admired utility.
"Alright."
A trace of disgust flashed in Lucas’s eyes, but he hid it well.
His smile returned in a breath.
Warm.
Cultured.
Almost tender.
He rose and walked behind her.
His hands settled onto her shoulders.
He began kneading.
And instantly regretted existing.
He felt like he was squeezing a piece of breathing fat.
The greasy sensation from his fingertips made him want to vomit.
But his face remained serene.
Even elegant.
His voice lowered gently.
"Does the pressure feel right?"
Thalia gave a shiver.
"Oh... that’s nice... a bit harder."
Lucas increased the force.
Inside, his soul scread.
If it weren’t for needing to use this woman, he wouldn’t bother getting close to her.
That was the difference.
The biggest difference between him and Obsidan King Evan was that he wouldn’t hold himself aloof like Evan.
Pride was expensive.
Adaptability made kings.
For the sake of advantage, he would even flirt with a seventy-year-old woman with a facial tumor.
That was survival.
That was ambition.
That was why he believed he would win.
Thalia half-turned and placed her plump hand over his.
"Your hands are magic, Lucas."
Her voice dripped honey.
"Whatever you ask of ... mm... I’ll do."
Suppressing the urge to vomit, Lucas asked casually, as if discussing weather,
"Is everything arranged for today?"
Thalia smiled, eyes narrowing.
"All set, Lucas, don’t worry. Whatever you like, I’ll give it to you."
Her fingers caressed Lucas’s hand tenderly.
Lucas resisted the instinct to wrench away.
Instead, he leaned slightly closer.
"Even Bianca De Dominicis?" he asked softly.
Thalia chuckled.
"Especially her."
Lucas nodded, feeling a bit better.
Now the true ga surfaced.
This was not seduction.
It was a hunt.
Last ti, he planned to gain favor with Charlotte Bonds, but unexpectedly, it backfired.
He rembered Charlotte’s fierce teal eyes.
Rembered Julian appearing.
Rembered humiliation.
His jaw tightened.
This ti, he simply adjusted his target to Bianca De Dominicis.
A more strategic move.
More profitable.
And far more dangerous.
"She’s proud," Thalia said, sipping wine. "Proud won fall hardest when drugged with trust."
Lucas’s lips curled faintly.
"Careful," he murmured. "I prefer willing surrender over crude force."
Thalia laughed.
"You n always lie prettily."
He ignored it.
Because Bianca was not rely a woman.
She was close to the D’Aurelius household.
Close to Julian.
Close to power.
If she could beco his woman, it would be a great help.
And unlike Evan—who conquered won through heroics and fate—Lucas preferred infiltration.
Slow corruption.
Dependency.
Then ownership.
He continued massaging.
Thalia practically lted into the sofa.
"Lucas," she purred, "once this works... stay in Woodland longer."
He lowered his voice with crafted warmth.
"If destiny permits."
Inside:
(Endure.)
(Just endure until the prey enters the snare.)
He glanced toward the table.
There rested two wine bottles prepared for the afternoon eting.
One ordinary.
One altered.
His eyes lingered.
Cold.
Calculating.
Yet sowhere beneath that calculation lingered another thought.
Julian.
Again.
Would he interfere?
Would fate twist once more?
His fingers paused unconsciously.
Thalia noticed.
"What happened?"
Lucas smiled again.
"Thinking."
"About ?"
"About success."
That answer pleased her.
She laughed so hard her bracelets rattled.
Outside the glass, thunder rolled faintly over Woodland.
Rain threatened.
The city lights shimred beneath gathering clouds.
Storm before intrigue.
Very fitting.
Lucas moved back around to face her.
He lifted his wine.
"To our cooperation."
Thalia lifted hers.
"To our future."
Glasses touched.
A small crystal sound.
Like a blade being drawn.
Lucas drank.
And smiled.
But behind that smile, venom breathed.
He had already lost one opening in Valemont.
He would not lose another.
Julian had wounded him.
Humiliated him.
Forced him to adapt.
Fine.
Then he would strike through what Julian valued.
Not through fists.
Through people.
Through hearts.
Through desire.
He looked at the two prepared wine bottles again.
His blue eyes hardened.
"Julian..." he whispered inwardly.
"Let’s see if your luck protects you forever."
Thalia leaned closer again.
"My shoulder still aches."
Lucas resud kneading.
Feeling once more like he was pressing animated lard.
But he smiled as though touching silk.
Because ambition often wore perfu.
And sotis... slled like grease.
This ti, he simply adjusted his target to Bianca De Dominicis.
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