A Gaze Across Worlds

Arsen Zverev Valerievich sat at the head of the long black table in his office. The table was made of polished stone, shining like glass under the warm lights. Behind him, tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, showing the wide city below. Skyscrapers, busy streets, and bright signs made the skyline look alive even in the late evening. This view belonged to him. The city itself felt like it was at his feet.

At only twenty-one years old, Arsen had already built the kind of reputation men twice his age dreamed of. He was a genius in business, a natural leader in sports, and a man whose face and figure could have belonged to a model. Power, wealth, respect—he had it all. People whispered about him in boardrooms, admired him in secret, and feared to disappoint him.

But they also called him cold.

Some said his eyes, gray as steel, were unreadable. Others said his voice was sharp and heavy, carrying no warmth. His staff did not dare to approach him unless they had to. To many, Arsen was like a fortress—strong, tall, impossible to break.

Yet, inside that fortress was a secret. Something no one expected.

Behind his strict, mature face, Arsen’s heart had been stolen quietly by someone who didn’t belong in his world of power and shadows.

Her name was Hillary Seraphina.

Hillary was not a famous woman from society events. She was not someone with influence or a family name that demanded respect. She was a young woman with simple dreams, quiet grace, and a light that made her different from the people Arsen was used to meeting.

He had first seen her at a corporate dinner months ago. He had not even planned to attend, but duty required his presence. It was supposed to be another dull evening, another room filled with people chasing his approval.

And then he saw her.

She had been talking with her best friend, smiling softly, her laughter like a gentle sound that cut through the heavy conversations around him. Hillary wore a modest cream dress, her long brown hair falling neatly over her shoulders. She was not decorated with diamonds or silk like the women trying to catch his eye. She was simple. Pure.

And Arsen noticed her.

From the moment their eyes met across the room, he could not forget her. She had not looked at him with fear or blind admiration. She had not rushed to impress him like others did. Instead, her gaze was curious, quiet, and honest. For a man who lived in a world full of masks, that one honest glance was enough to shake him.

Days passed, then weeks, but her name stayed with him. Hillary Seraphina.

He thought of her at night when the city outside his window was quiet. He thought of her during his training sessions at the gym, when sweat ran down his skin but his mind was not on the weights, but on her. He thought of her when women tried to catch his attention at parties, and he found them empty compared to her simple smile.

The genius strategist, the man feared for his cold logic, was trapped by a single memory.

And he liked it.

Arsen leaned back in his chair, staring at the lights of the city. His fingers tapped lightly together, his sharp mind already calculating paths that might bring her into his world again.

“Sir,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was his assistant, nervous as always when speaking to him. “The quarterly report from Seraphina Textiles has arrived.”

Arsen’s eyes flicked toward him. The name caught his attention immediately. Seraphina Textiles.

Of all the companies his empire partnered with, it had to be hers. The very company Hillary worked for.

Arsen’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles. It was not warm, but it was certain. Perhaps it was fate. Or perhaps it was simply the world bending, as it often did, to his will.

“Prepare a visit,” he said calmly, his deep voice carrying the weight of command. “I want to see their operations myself.”

“Yes, Mr. Valerievich.”

When the assistant left, silence returned. Arsen stood and walked toward the wide glass windows. His reflection stared back at him—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharp black suit. Every inch of him looked untouchable. But beneath that cold reflection, his mind burned with one thought.

He whispered her name as if it were a vow only he could hear.

“Hillary.”

She would not escape him.

He would see her again, and when he did, he would make sure she could no longer ignore the gravity that pulled her into his world.

Because when Arsen Zverev Valerievich wanted something, he did not let it go.

And now, he wanted her.

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