Chapter 9: The Dream Come True… With The Predator's Smile
The chandelier light didn't just illuminate the ballroom; it shattered against the crystal, casting jagged, diamond-edged shadows across the marble floor. For Elena, the opulence felt like a gilded cage.
"Elena! Look! It's him!" Kira exclaimed again.
The air in the grand foyer was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive cologne, a fragrance that felt like a chokehold to Elena. She dug her heels into the plush crimson carpet, her body leaning back in a silent protest that went unheeded.
"Please…" Elena hissed, her voice a jagged whisper.
But Dasha and Kira were beyond reason. They were fueled by the kind of adrenaline that only a brush with a god could provide. They each took one of Elena's hands, their grip like iron wrapped in silk, and surged forward. Elena felt like a small boat being towed into the eye of a hurricane.
"Egor! Egor Creed!"
The name left their lips like a prayer. He turned, and for a moment, time seemed to liquefy.
Standing there, Egor Creed looked less like a man and more like a cinematic masterpiece. He draped his charisma over the room with the practiced ease of a king. Elena's heart hammered against her ribs—not with the adoration of her friends, but with the frantic rhythm of a bird sensing a predator in the high grass. She was stuck in between of escaping this predatory trap and having a lifetime moment with her favourite celebrity.
"Whoa, slow down," Egor laughed. It was a rich, melodic sound that lacked the jagged edges of the elite surrounding them. He looked at Dasha and Kira, his eyes dancing with genuine amusement. "You two look like you've just run a marathon to get here."
"We would have run across the continent," Dasha gasped, her face flushed a vibrant rose.
Egor grinned, leaning in slightly, a move that made Kira nearly forget how to breathe. "And who is this silent one?" He directed his gaze at Elena, his smile softening into something curious, almost protective.
Elena couldn't find her tongue. She felt the weight of the room, the hidden weapons, the eyes behind masks. "She's just shy," Kira blurted out. "She loves you as we do, she's just in shock!"
Egor let out a soft, delighted chuckle, shaking his head. He didn't mock their frantic energy; he seemed to drink it in, a refreshing draught of honesty in a room full of choreographed lies. He somehow liked their childish company and couldn't stop smiling at their words.
While the girls were lost in their idols' glow, a shadow moved near the ballroom's towering oak doors.
The same guard, dressed in a suit so black it seemed to absorb the light, approached Roxane. She stood like a marble statue in front of the door, her bridal gown flowing around her in waves of deceptive purity. Her eyes were glued to the three excited figures, having their charismatic moment with that person in white suit. That's what Egor was to her! She has her eyes because she knew they had their ears tucked into something that wasn't supposed to be heard.
The guard hesitated, his boots making no sound on the stone. He bowed his head, holding out his phone.
"Madame," he murmured, his voice a low vibration. "They claim they were invited, but they do not appear on the primary seating chart. Do you know them?"
He showed her a candid shot he had secretly taken moments ago. It was a triptych of faces: Dasha's, Kira's, and Elena's.
Roxane's eyes locked onto the image. Her gaze traveled from the photo of the girls to their real figures and then the man they were with—Egor.
Her jaw tightened. There was a fear in the her eyes; it was the fear of a witness. Perhaps with some dangerous information.
"Yes," Roxane said, her voice a cold sliver of ice. "I know them."
The guard nodded once, a sharp, robotic movement, and vanished back into the shadows.
At that exact moment, as if pulled by an invisible thread, Elena turned her head. She had this feeling of being watched. Across the vast expanse of the hall, her eyes met Roxane's. The bride didn't blink. Her stare was deadly, a silent promise of a reckoning that made the blood in Elena's veins turn to slush.
Elena jerked her head away, her breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches.
Roxane didn't wait for a second look. She turned on her heel and swept into the ballroom, the heavy doors groaning shut behind her.
Inside, the silence was a physical weight. She didn't sit; she threw herself into a velvet armchair, her hands diving into her hair, undoing the meticulous work of her stylists. Her mind was a frantic loom, weaving dark possibilities.
Did they hear the conversation? How much did they understand?
The fear wasn't about recognition—it was about exposure. If those girls had overheard even a fragment of the arrangement, the entire evening was a ticking bomb. She sat that way, unmoving, the shadows of the room lengthening like grasping fingers, until a soft knock echoed through the wood.
"Miss? The function is about to start. Are you ready?"
Roxane exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. She stood up, smoothing her dress with trembling hands, forcing her face into a mask of porcelain perfection.
"Sir is ready and is looking for you!" the maid repeated. Softer this time.
"I'm coming," Roxane said, her voice devoid of emotion. She brushed those thoughts off, eolimg the door and forcing a smile.
As the ballroom doors swung open, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The chatter died down to a reverent hum.
In the center of the hall stood a man.
He was a man carved from winter. In his white suit, he looked like a ghost of the old world, but his expression was that of a man who had seen the end of it. He was cold, tough, and entirely expressionless, his presence radiating a gravitational pull that demanded submission. Behind him, a phalanx of guards stood like statues, their black uniforms a stark void against the gold leaf of the walls, submachine guns held with a casual, terrifying familiarity.
When Roxane reached him, he took her arm. His touch wasn't a caress; it was a claim. He guided her forward, the crowd parting like water before a prow.
The announcer's voice boomed, declaring the commencement of the night.
Egor Creed, Dasha, Elena and Kira turned their heads toward the sound. The girls froze. The sight of Aurelien Monesque—the sheer, brutal power he projected—was enough to shatter their fan-girl delusions. Dasha caught Elena's eye and gave a sharp, frantic gesture. They needed to leave.
They began to back away, slipping toward the periphery, trying to become invisible.
Aurelien's eyes swept the room. He noticed the retreating figures—three girls moving against the flow of the crowd. His gaze lingered on Elena for a fraction of a second too long. He didn't say a word. He simply glanced at the captain of his guard and gave a microscopic nod.
The guard detached from the line, a silent predator beginning the hunt. His movement so deliberate that no other eye caught him going after them, except the one that gestured him.
Roxane looked up at Aurelien, seeing the slight, chilling curve of his lips. She thought, for a fleeting, hopeful second, that he was smiling at her—that he was happy to begin their life together.
She was wrong. Totally wrong.
Aurelien wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at the exit, his smile deepening because he knew his man was already closing the distance behind the girls. The trap hadn't just been set; it was already beginning to snap shut.