Thorn of Grace In the Crimson Red

Chapter 1

The night was carved in crystal and glass.

Vienna’s Grand Imperial Hall, full of people from the world's elite. Power-suited men flirting with diamond-draped women exchanged smirks, kisses, and secrets under gold-dipped chandeliers. But none of them silenced the room like my presence did.

Draped in a high-necked, blood-red gown that whispered authority with every step, I knew the power of presence. My heels clicked like punctuation marks on marble, each step making the murmurs grow louder. Lawyers across continents bent to my will. My name was a poisonous blade, my reputation echoing in every courtroom I’d conquered.

At the top of the grand staircase, I paused. Let them look. Let them speculate if I was here to poach the Vortigen deal. I was. And more.

Because he was here.

Archeron Morpheus Leuvremont.

The bane of my ambition. The shadow that never quite left. He stood near the far bar, effortlessly magnetic, surrounded by sycophants who mistook proximity for privilege. His empire was built on fear and brilliance. Ruthless. Precise. Relentless.

Our history was bloodless war—courtroom duels, hostile takeovers, contracts broken just to make a point. He once tanked a client’s billion-dollar merger simply because I was lead counsel.

Petty. Infuriating. Brilliant.

His eyes found me first. Of course they did.

I descended with the poise of inevitability. Let the world watch. Let them see the thorn meet its mirror.

“Wassup, Leuvremont,” I said, voice smooth and flat, the name sharp on my tongue.

“'Sup, Casanove.” His smirk was infuriating. He handed me a glass of wine—expensive, red, dramatic. "I heard you dismantled the Metzinger dynasty."

"They were rotting. I just applied pressure."

“You’ve always had a talent for pressure.”

“And you’ve always had a talent for getting in the way,” I said, annoyed.

"Still poetic, I see," he said with a smirk.

"Still dramatic, I see," I replied.

The air between us crackled, tension veiled in champagne and civility. Around us, conversations faltered—eyes darted. People sensed it: not attraction, not hostility. Something sharper. Older.

Rivalry.

“You’re here for the Vortigen contract,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

“I’m here to win.”

“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”

I smiled without warmth. “You always assume the world bends for you.”

He leaned closer, not enough to touch, just enough to provoke. “It usually does.”

I sipped the wine. Dry. Overpriced. Like him.

Above us, the chandelier gleamed crimson, casting fractured light across his cheekbones. For a moment, the room blurred. Only the battle remained.

“Let’s see who bleeds first, Morpheus,” I whispered.

His smile deepened. “Ladies first.”

The banquet continued around us, but we had already drawn first blood.

The bloom had opened. And the thorns were ready.

I sat at the front of the stage where the bidding would start.

Thirty minutes before the bidding began, I had a storm of what-ifs circling in my head. "What if I never followed the path carved in someone else's name?" "What if I had become a doctor? A space engineer?"

I’d been in my seat for fifteen minutes. No one dared sit next to me.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Of course. Who else would dare but Leuvremont?

“If I say no, will you walk away?” I replied, irritation bleeding through my voice.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother asking. I was going to sit here regardless.” His tone was laced with mockery.

“It’s surprising you’re not glued to the side of a woman dripping in diamonds.”

“Don’t bid for the Vortigen contract,” he said, leaning in, “and I’ll give you ten billion.”

“I’m not short on money,” I replied icily.

“Fifty billion.”

“I told you—”

“One hundred billion.”

I slipped in my earpods, eyes locked on the stage.