It was nearly 7 PM when Damir Voss stepped inside the grand Lionel Mansion. The dim golden lights flickered on as the door clicked shut behind him. Everything in the main hall was in its place — untouched, immaculate, cold. His eyes swept the long dining table set with silverware, candles unlit, the silence heavy. Not a trace of Auren.
For a second, Damir assumed the boy was ready. Maybe he'd already dressed and was waiting in the car. That would've made things easier. He didn't want to waste time. He didn't want to look at him.
But no.
Damir turned toward the staircase, something cold twisting in his gut. Step after step, his shoes echoed through the empty mansion. When he reached Auren's bedroom door, it was cracked open slightly. He pushed it open with a rough nudge.
There, curled up on the velvet covers, was Auren — fast asleep.
Damir's jaw tightened. The air shifted.
With no hesitation, he slammed the door open with a loud BANG.
Auren jolted up instantly, blinking in panic. His hair was messy, his cardigan sliding off one shoulder. Confused, disoriented, and still half-asleep, he met Damir's hard stare.
"I told you," Damir said, voice low and venomous, "we had to go out tonight. For the after-party dressing How can you be so careless?"
"I—I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was just—"
"Don't test my patience, Auren."
Before Auren could speak again, Damir had already grabbed his wrist and dragged him from the bed. He didn't wait for protests. His grip was too tight to escape. He pulled Auren into the marble bathroom and turned on the shower without a word.
The sound of water filled the room. Cold droplets splashed against Auren's face, soaking through the thin white shirt he still wore from earlier.
He gasped, frozen. "Damir…!"
But Damir didn't listen. His eyes locked onto Auren's soaked figure — the shirt clinging to his chest, the drops running down his neck. Auren stood in shock, lips trembling, unsure if he should speak or move.
And then Damir stepped closer.
His hand curled around Auren's jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.
He kissed him — not gently. It wasn't soft or warm or anything close to tender. It was possession. Obsession. Heat laced with cold control.
When Damir finally pulled away, his voice was flat.
"You have 30 minutes. Come downstairs. I don't have time to wait around for your slowness."
He walked out, leaving Auren alone — wet, shivering, and speechless.
Thirty minutes later, Auren came down the staircase.
His damp hair framed his face, and the soft scent of vanilla clung to his white cardigan. He wore a sleek pearl-beige shirt tucked into tailored ivory pants, finished with a pale gold brooch at his collar. Delicate but sharp—his style always reflected him: gentle on the outside, painfully unaware of the storm within.
Damir stood at the bottom of the stairs, scrolling through his phone. Without even looking up, he said coldly, "Let's go."
No compliment. No glance. Not even a flicker of emotion in his voice.
Auren smiled anyway. "Okay…"
They drove in silence—just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of traffic lights flicking from red to green. The city blurred past the windows, tall buildings and soft lights cascading into shadows. Auren kept sneaking glances at Damir, searching for something in his expression.
Nothing.
They arrived at Sorellé Mode Luxe, a private luxury atelier known for styling the city's most powerful men. The clerk, recognizing Damir instantly, offered a deep bow. "Mr. Voss. We've prepared your private room."
"Bring white," Damir said, coldly.
"Coats?" the clerk asked, unsure.
"White coats. White suits. White anything," he snapped. "For both of us."
"Yes, sir."
Auren trailed behind Damir as they entered the velvet-draped room. A full-length mirror shimmered on one wall, and several high-end mannequins displayed sleek modern wedding attire in soft whites, silvers, and hints of blush.
The staff quickly brought in several options. As they changed, Auren chose something soft and delicate—an off-white suit with sheer sleeves and pearl-threaded embroidery. It fit like it was made for him.
He stepped out of the dressing room and twirled once, laughing softly. "Damir… what do you think?"
He didn't get a reply.
Damir didn't even look.
He stood by the window, arms folded, gaze fixed outside. It wasn't that he didn't hear—he ignored it.
But everyone else noticed.
Every pair of eyes turned toward Auren, stunned by how radiant he looked. His skin glowed under the chandeliers, and the gentle way he brushed his fingers through his hair made him look like a dream. The clerk whispered something to another assistant, clearly smitten.
And yet, to Damir, he was invisible.
Auren's smile faltered a little, but he didn't say anything. He turned toward the mirror, adjusting his collar and straightening the delicate cuffs. "Maybe it's too much," he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.
Finally, Damir turned his head—just enough to catch a glimpse of him.
His eyes didn't soften. They darkened.
Like he was seeing something he wanted to destroy.
"I'll take that one," he said flatly. "We're done here."
"But—" Auren blinked. "We haven't picked yours—"
"I did." Damir walked past him, brushing his shoulder coldly. "You're the one on display. I'm just the chain around your neck."
He meant it. Every word.
Auren came down the stairs slowly, his pale suit hugging his frame, soft white curls brushed back as the delicate silver accessories shimmered under the chandelier light.
Damir stood by the door, checking his watch, not even sparing him a glance.
The luxury car waited outside. Their destination: the after-party—a high-profile event for both families to show off their "perfect" marriage.
Auren reached the last step. "I'm ready."
Damir looked up, finally. His gaze was blank, sharp.
He walked up to Auren, adjusted the collar of his coat, and leaned in slightly—his voice low.
"Don't do anything stupid," he said flatly. "We just have to survive the night."
Auren swallowed. "Right…"
Then Damir grabbed his wrist—not gently, not lovingly, just firmly—and pulled him toward the door.
The grand entrance of the Voss estate opened.
Music played faintly from the distance. Cameras flashed. The after-party had already begun.
And as they stepped into the night, Auren's heart pounded—not with excitement, but with something colder.
Something like fear.
(To be continued)