The city didn't sleep, but from sixty stories up, it looked stationary—a grid of frantic lights trapped under a veil of Thames fog.
Adrian Draculstood before the floor-to-ceiling glass of his corner office, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't move. He hadn't moved for eleven minutes. To a human observer, he would have looked like a statue. To himself, he was simply waiting.
On the mahogany desk behind him lay a single manila folder. Elena Vale.
He didn't need to look at it again. He had memorized the data weeks ago: her dual degrees from the LSE and Oxford, her flawless record at Blackwood & Associates, her preference for black coffee, and her refusal to take a holiday in three years. She was a machine of logic and precision.
He heard her before the elevator reached the floor.
The hum of the cables was a dull roar in his ears, but her heartbeat was the clarity in the noise. It was steady. Rhythmic. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Seventy-two beats per minute. Most people's heart rates spiked when they stepped onto the executive floor of the Shard. Hers remained as cool as the glass against his palm.
A light chime echoed through the silent suite.
"Ms. Vale is here, Mr. Dracul," his assistant's voice crackled through the intercom.
"Send her in."
Adrian didn't turn around. He watched her reflection in the glass as the heavy oak doors clicked open.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
The first thing Elena noticed was the temperature.
The hallway had been a standard seventy degrees. The moment she stepped into Adrian Dracul's office, the air dropped. It wasn't uncomfortably cold, but it was crisp, like a cellar or a winter midnight. It felt sterile. Expensive.
The office was vast, lit only by the London skyline and a single lamp on the desk. No personal photos. No awards. Just glass, steel, and shadows.
And then, there was him.
He was a silhouette against the city, his back to her. He wore a charcoal suit that looked molded to his frame. He was taller than he appeared in press releases and possessed a stillness that felt intentional.
"Mr. Dracul," she said. Her voice didn't waver. She hadn't spent six years in high-stakes finance to be rattled by a CEO with a penchant for dim lighting.
"Ms. Vale."
He turned. It was a slow, deliberate movement. His face was a study in sharp angles and pale skin, eyes a shade of grey like polished flint. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a hand. He simply gestured to the leather chair across from his desk.
"Sit."
Elena sat. She crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt, and met his gaze. Up close, his presence was a physical weight. There was an absence of human fidgeting—no blinking, no shifting of weight, no audible breathing.
"You've had forty-eight hours to review the offer," Adrian said. He moved to his chair, sitting with a grace that felt entirely too fluid.
"I have," Elena replied. "The compensation is significantly above market rate. The benefits package is... extensive. Even by Blood Empire standards."
"We are not a standard firm."
"Clearly." She looked at the folder on the desk. "However, there are several points in the contract that deviate from standard executive agreements. Specifically, the exclusivity clause."
Adrian leaned back. The shadows seemed to cling to him. "Elaborate."
"Section 4.2 states that I am to be on-call twenty-four hours a day, at your personal discretion. It also specifies that I am prohibited from leaving the Greater London area without written consent. That sounds less like a strategist position and more like a restrictive covenant."
"I value availability," Adrian said. His voice was low, a baritone that seemed to vibrate in the cool air. "When I move, I move quickly. I require my strategist to be within reach. My interests are global, Elena. They are also sensitive."
"I understand discretion, Mr. Dracul. I don't understand the geography restriction. My work can be done from a laptop in the Maldives just as easily as it can from a desk in Canary Wharf."
"Not the work I have planned for you."
He leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. His fingers were long, his nails perfectly manicured. "You are being hired to manage the restructuring of the Dracul estate and its holdings. That requires your physical presence. Your absolute focus. Your... loyalty."
Elena studied him. He didn't look like a man used to being questioned, yet he didn't seem annoyed. He looked at her as if she were a complicated ledger he was in the process of balancing.
"The loyalty clause," she began, flipping to the final page. "Section 12. 'The employee agrees to a term of service that shall not be terminated by the employee for a period of five years, under penalty of total asset forfeiture.' That's not just aggressive. It's likely unenforceable."
"It is enforceable within this company," Adrian said.
"I'm a strategist, not a servant. I don't sign my life away for a salary, no matter how many zeros are on the end of it."
For the first time, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "You think too small, Elena. You think in terms of currency. I am offering you a seat at a table most people don't know exists. I am offering you the chance to influence the flow of wealth on a scale that makes the City look like a playground."
He paused, and the silence in the room became absolute. Elena realized she couldn't hear the air conditioning anymore. She couldn't hear the sirens below. There was only the sound of her own breath.
"I don't want a worker," he continued. "I want a partner who understands that once you enter this circle, there is no stepping out. It is a commitment of more than just time."
Elena looked down at the contract. The words seemed sharper, the ink darker. She felt a prickle at the back of her neck, a primal instinct telling her that the air in this room was thinner than it should be.
She was analytical. She was logical. And logically, this was the opportunity of a career. But she also knew Adrian Dracul wasn't telling her everything. There was something in the way he watched her—not with lust, but with a terrifyingly focused interest.
"Five years," she said, her voice steady.
"Five years," he repeated. "To start."
"And the medical waiver? Why does the company require its own private physicians for my annual check-ups?"
"Insurance purposes. Our executives are our greatest assets. We protect our assets."
He picked up a heavy, silver fountain pen and slid it across the desk toward her. The metal was cold when she touched it.
Elena looked from the pen to the man. Adrian Dracul sat in the shadows, his pale eyes fixed on hers. He didn't blink. He didn't urge her. He simply waited, certain of her answer.
She had spent her career climbing. This was the summit. Even if the mountain was made of ice.
Elena leaned forward, turned to the final page, and signed her name in a clean, sharp script. She pushed the paper back toward him.
Adrian stood. He didn't reach for the contract immediately. Instead, he walked around the desk, stopping inches from her chair. He didn't tower over her, yet he seemed to occupy all the available space.
She looked up at him, refusing to shrink back. Up close, he smelled of sandalwood and something cold—like rain on stone.
"You've made a wise choice, Elena," he said.
He reached down, his fingers brushing the edge of the paper she had just signed. His skin was unnaturally cool, a brief contact that sent a jolt through her nerves.
He looked down at her, his gaze heavy and final.
"You belong to Blood Empire now."
Elena held his gaze.
For the first time in her career, she wasn't sure whether she had just secured her future—or surrendered it.
End of Chapter 1