KAYROS'S POV
Family.
She says she is my family. With so much confidence, so much certainty—as if this entire twisted game between us doesn't make me hate her, doesn't make me doubt every word she says.
She says she's happy knowing someone cares enough to hurt her.
And it feels like a burning knife stabbing through my chest—a tight, unwelcome feeling that makes me want to drop to my knees and tell her I won't hurt her.
But I don't.
My heart is torn in two. One half still hates her for wearing Ophelia's face, the face of the woman who betrayed me and our son. The other half is losing itself in her sparkling green eyes—deep and calm like a lake I wouldn't mind drowning in.
Who is she?
Just who the hell is she?
Why can't I just be normal? Why can't I just ignore her like I should?
I loved Ophelia. I really did, in my past life.
Then why am I drawn to this radiant stranger? Why don't I want to hurt her like I swore I would?
My own mind is a battlefield, and I'm growing tired of fighting myself.
I notice Czar. His fingers are crossed—the signal that the plan is moving into its final stage.
My chest tightens with a strange, heavy unease. I planned this. I know I did. But suddenly… I don't want to ruin this. Not now.
My eyes fall back on her—this infuriating, brilliant woman whose words have a way of unsettling me from somewhere deep inside my soul.
"What?" She wiggles her eyebrow playfully.
I feel a tight knot in my stomach, my grip around her wrist tightening unconsciously.
She feels so small in my rough, war-hardened hands. Tender. Soft.
"You're ridiculous," I mutter bitterly.
She seems unfazed and gives me a smile.
And fuck.
My pulse kicks up—rapid, embarrassingly loud. The light catches the curve of her lips, and in that golden glow, she looks like some dream I never dared to look at.
It's not just that she's beautiful. God knows she is. But she's beautiful in a way the real Ophelia never was—in a way I can't even explain.
Czar raises an eyebrow. I sigh and give him the signal with my eyes.
Nothing changes.
The war drum has already sounded. War is inevitable.
The main doors open.
A murmur sweeps through the ballroom before silence falls—the kind of silence that feels like the whole room is holding its breath.
Vincent Dimitri walks in, alongside his father—Timofey Dimitri, the Russian drug lord, the second most dangerous man in the Bratva.
Timofey has stormy gray eyes and the lazy gaze of a man who knows he can shift the balance of power at any moment. His presence alone is enough to cause havoc.
My father's face hardens. His jaw clenches, lips pressed tight. I almost smirk seeing the first cracks in his usually composed, arrogant mask.
Vincent looks equally furious when his eyes land on me standing beside Ophelia. Ophelia narrows her gaze, confused by the Dimitris' presence. Her brow furrows in that thin line I've come to recognize—the wheels in her mind turning fast and silent.
Even the politicians and presidents in attendance shift nervously. Beneath this glittering chandelier now stand three of the underworld's most powerful men:
Blake Nathaniel—The Mafia King.
Timofey Dimitri—The Conqueror.
Raphael Blackwood—The Neutral.
Alexander stands behind me, his gaze silent but sharp.
"You can't kill a Dimitri in public,"I remind him quietly.
He huffs under his breath, jaw tight. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Are you planning to embarrass me?" Ophelia squints at me, like a kitten trying to figure out if something's a trap.
I tuck my hands into my pockets and let a dangerous, conspiratorial smile touch my lips.
"What an outrageous comment to make,ma chérie," I gasp dramatically.
She parts her lips to reply, but another voice cuts through the tension first.
"You look too happy at your engagement to someone else… for someone who said she could never imagine a life without me."
Vincent's voice is cold, furious. His glare burns like fire. Dressed in a sharp black suit, his hair deliberately messy, his jaw clenched so tight the veins stand out.
A familiar, roaring hatred rises in my chest as his gray eyes meet mine with pure disdain.
All I can think is: This man. This fucking pawn. He executed my family. His hands were drenched in the blood of everyone I loved.
My hand twitches inside my pocket. My throat tightens, burns with the need to scream, to tear his head from his neck. Goosebumps rise under my suit. An animalistic, raw desire to torture him, to peel his skin and feed him to hounds in some dark forest.
My mouth feels ashy. My ears ring. Everything starts to fade. My breathing quickens. My pulse races out of control.
I want to ruin him. I want to—
"Kay… your eyes are turning red," Czar whispers from behind me, jerking me out of the murderous haze.
I feel like I'm ten feet underwater—limbs stiff, breath coming in shallow pulls.
Vincent looks unsettled by the pure murder in my gaze. His eyes falter for a second before he steels himself again.
"Why are you so angry? You took my girlfriend from me, you bastard!" he spits out.
Ophelia's eyes widen, offended. "Excuse me?"
Her sharp, pitched voice feels like a lifeline thrown to me before I lose myself completely. I inhale deeply, forcing my body to relax.
Ophelia steps in front of me. This tiny woman looks like someone just told her the sun orbits the Earth.
"I am not your girlfriend," she snaps, emphasizing every word.
Vincent looks down at her in disbelief. "You cheated on me?"
She lifts a brow. "Cheated?"
Suddenly, the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
Timofey watches us from across the crowd. My father narrows his eyes.
And, surprisingly, Raphael Blackwood continues chatting with the president of a Gulf oil company as if the black sheep of his family isn't publicly confronting the future boss of Black Widow.
This doesn't make sense.
The Raphael I remember would have dragged Ophelia out of the room for causing a scene. At the very least, he would have glared at her in warning.
But he just stands there, relaxed, sipping his wine. Even Rhys and Ivy are frowning at their father's unexpected calm.
Ophelia laughs lowly. "Did I cheat on you? Or…" Her eyes darken. "Did you cheat on me with that bitch who calls herself my best friend?"
Elosia, who entered the ballroom minutes earlier, freezes. The color drains from her face like she's seen a ghost.
My eyes widen slightly. Czar gasps. Alexander looks like he's mentally solving a surgical crisis.
Vincent shifts uncomfortably. "What are you talking about?"
Ophelia smiles—a cruel, beautiful smile.
Fuck. I wasn't expecting this. My plan to humiliate Ophelia in front of everyone is flipping into Vincent Dimitri being exposed as a cheater and Elosia Jonas being branded a backstabbing whore.
"Look, Elosia!" Ophelia calls out loudly. "Your pretty sugar daddy isn't even trying to defend your slutty ass!"
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Whispers erupt.
Elosia's eyes well up with tears. "O-Ophy… h-how can you s-say that?"
Her cheeks flush as tears roll down. People around us murmur, some judging Ophelia for her harshness.
Something in me feels… unsettled. I rub the back of my neck, pressure building behind my eyes.
My original plan was to escalate the tension between my father, Timofey, and Raphael—three men who've never gotten along. Given Ophelia's history with Vincent and her public humiliation of him at Crescent Moon, Timofey wouldn't stay silent. My father and Timofey have been in a cold war for three decades—ever since the New Year's Eve fire in Berlin that paralyzed my mother and killed Timofey's eldest son and two daughters.
Each blames the other. Neither has proof. And now…
Vincent's face reddens with rage. "Mind your language, Ophelia."
Ophelia chuckles softly and tilts her head. "Oh? Why? Does little Venny feel humiliated being called a man-whore?" She steps closer.
My body tenses. My eyes sharpen.
"Tell me," she says, her voice dropping to a carrying whisper. "Does her pussy taste so good you got addicted?"
SLAP.
Vincent's hand flies out and strikes Ophelia's cheek before anyone can react.
And something inside me snaps.
My fist connects with his jaw before logic even catches up—a sharp, brutal impact that sends him stumbling back.
Elosia screams.
My breathing turns ragged.
"KAYROS NATHENIEL!" Timofey roars, storming toward us, his Russian accent thick with fury.
"HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY SON, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!"
Timofey pulls out his gun. His guards follow suit.
But then, someone steps in front of me.
"I bet you won't mind dying alongside your son, you Russian pig."
The voice is heavy, authoritative—the voice of a man who's carried the weight of the underworld for decades. The same man who ordered 221 lashes on my back now stands before me like a fortress I never knew existed.
Timofey growls. "Blake! Are you threatening me?"
My father's eyes are cold and merciless. "No. I'm telling you. Nobody touches what is mine." He glances over his shoulder at me, and my chest tightens. Something flutters—something I haven't felt in a very long time.
"He's my fucking son."