Niamph stood in front of the mirror in the changing room, pulling the silk scarf from her hair and letting it fall into her duffel bag. She had already slipped out of the embellished, skin-baring costume and into a simple, loose black dress-something that felt more like her. The air still smelled of stage makeup and musky perfume, but she took a deep breath anyway. It was over.

She glanced at the glittering outfit folded on the bench and frowned.

She never liked wearing these clothes. The way the fabric clung to her curves, the way it revealed more than it concealed-it wasn't her. But the art of belly dancing required it. And she loved the dance. The rhythm, the emotion, the way her body could speak what her mouth could not. So she endured the costume, every time, swallowing her discomfort like a bitter pill.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Aiofi burst in, arms wide.

"You did amazing, candy pie!" she beamed, rushing toward her.

Niamph chuckled softly and hugged her friend back. Aiofi's warmth was always a balm after nights like this.

"Thanks, Ai," she murmured.

But her smile faltered when she pulled away. Her mind drifted back-to the moment she'd been on stage. The lights. The music. The fog curling at her feet. And that feeling.

That strange, skin-prickling awareness.

Like someone was watching her. Not just watching-but dissecting her, devouring her presence with just gaze. It was cold, sharp, and relentless. The kind of look that left a mark even without touch.

She rubbed her arms absently.

Aiofi tilted her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Niamph lied with a smile. "Just nerves. It's rare to dance at something this... grand. All those suits and eyes. It's probably just in my head."

Aiofi grinned. "Well, you made a hell of a show. Everyone was speechless. Even the VIP section went quiet, and you know how rare that is."

Niamph laughed softly, brushing a curl behind her ear-but the chill still lingered.

A knock came at the door.

Before either of them could respond, a servant stepped in, holding a silver tray with an envelope resting on it.

"You are Minhat, right?" he asked politely, his gaze dropping respectfully.

Niamph gave a small nod. "Yes."

Minhat-the gift. Her stage name. A name that shimmered with mystery, like a jewel no one could quite hold. Only Aiofi and Sean knew the truth behind it. Everyone else-the organizers, the staff, even the elite guests-only knew the dancer who graced the stage like a secret whispered in moonlight.

She took the envelope and offered a soft "Thank you."

The servant nodded and left.

Aiofi peeked over her shoulder, curious. "Ooo, payment time."

Niamph didn't open it yet. She just held it, the soft paper strangely heavy in her hands.

There was always a weight that came with this name.

Minhat was freedom. Power. A release from the tight corners of her real life. But it was also a mask. One she had to wear carefully.

Because if her father ever found out... if Aira and Cara ever caught wind of this, they'd devour her alive.

She could already hear it-Cara's shrill, fake shock. Aira's icy smugness. "She dances like a seductress in public. No Moore does that? She's ruining your reputation, Conor."

And her father?

He'd go silent. Withdraw. Just like always. Maybe this time he'd do worse.

Maybe... he'd listen to them.

Maybe he'd disown her.

Niamph swallowed hard and tucked the envelope into her bag.

She couldn't let them find out.

Minhat had to stay a secret. Just like the girl behind the veil. A gift meant for the night, never for the light of day.

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The sound of fists slamming into the punching bag echoed through the training room like thunder.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Mikhail's knuckles were already bruised, blood blooming beneath the wraps like a warning. But he didn't stop.

It had been a week.

One full week since that night.

And yet, the image of her-that dancer-was still seared into his brain like a curse he couldn't cleanse.

Haunting.

Yes, that was the word.

She wasn't just some pretty performer. She is a phantom now-his phantom. One that danced in the corners of his mind every time he closed his eyes. That curve of her waist, the sway of her hips, those veiled eyes-dark brown and sinfully innocent.

He slammed his fist harder.

She was everywhere now. In his dreams. In the spaces between thoughts. In his restraint.

He hated it. And the worst of all.

He is craving it.

Thud.

He closed his eyes. And there she was again. Spinning. Swaying. Smiling like a secret only he was meant to know.

He jerked his eyes open with a growl.

Across the room, Leonid leaned against the wall, arms folded, silently observing. When their eyes met, he spoke calmly:

"You want me to trace her."

Mikhail froze.

"What?" His voice came low and sharp.

He hadn't told a soul. He hadn't needed to.

Leonid sighed and stepped forward.

"I've seen the way you've been since that night," he said, eyes steady. "Or more precisely-since you saw her."

Mikhail's jaw clenched. The air between them grew heavy.

Even hearing it aloud made something inside him shift-burn.

He turned away, shoulders tense. As if just the mention of her name-the one he didn't even know-woke a beast inside of him he wasn't ready to let out yet.

"No need," he said coldly. "Focus on work."

And then he walked out, not even sparing another glance.

As if putting distance between him and that cursed memory would help him forget.

But little did he knew.

It was already too late.

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Niamph sat cross-legged on her rug, a little velvet bow pinched between her fingers and a hot glue gun resting on the side. Her kittens-a white one named Marshmallow and a striped boy named Toast-watched her with curious eyes. She giggled, reaching out to gently clip a tiny blue bowtie on Toast's collar.

"You two are the only gentlemen I need in my life," she whispered playfully.

Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. When Niamph was in her creative zone, she didn't like distractions. But her flow broke when she reached for her water bottle and found it empty.

"Great," she muttered with a huff, rising to her feet. She hated leaving things halfway.

She padded out of her room barefoot, heading to the kitchen. As she passed the living room, she saw Cara sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, while Aira sipped coffee with a magazine in hand.

While filling her bottle at the sink, she overheard Cara's voice.

"Mom, look-this Greek god was in our city last week."

Niamph didn't turn around, but her ears caught the shift in tone.

Aira leaned closer. "But who is he, sugar?"

Cara rolled her eyes like it should've been obvious. "Mikhail Cozlov. The czar of the Russian Bratva. He's not just mafia, Mom. He owns tons of businesses-tech, logistics, even that huge Walmart that opened here two years ago? His."

Aira raised her brows, suddenly intrigued. "That's... impressive."

Niamph's brows furrowed. Mafia. She shook her head slightly, pretending not to hear. She hated people who bathed in power built on blood and fear. Living in violence, glorified like gods.

"I wish he was mine," Cara said, her voice dreamy.

Niamph stilled for a second.

In the hallway, Conor walked by but stopped in his tracks.

"Who are you talking about?" he asked, his tone laced with edge.

Cara's cheeks flushed, and Aira gave him a knowing smirk. "Some Russian czar," Aira said casually, teasing.

Cara mumbled, "Mom..." but before she could speak further, Conor's voice turned stern.

"I know who you're talking about. And you'd be wise to stop. That man's not a fantasy. He's dangerous. The kind who can level cities without blinking."

His tone cut through the room like ice.

"From now on, I don't want to hear this kind of nonsense again."

With that, he walked off, the air around him tense.

Aira exchanged a look with Cara, silent understanding passing between them. Cara pouted and rolled her eyes.

Niamph silently closed the water bottle.

Indeed dreaming about a man like him is no less then a curse.

Niamph close her eyes and did the cross sign and whispered.

Never let our paths cross, Lord.

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Cara flopped onto her bed, the bounce of the mattress matching the giddy flutter in her chest. A dreamy smile curled on her lips as she grabbed her phone and unlocked it. She opened a secret folder-tucked away in her gallery like a shrine.

Photos of Mikhail Cozlov filled the screen.

Some were grainy, clipped from magazines. Others were clearer, snapped from news articles, rare interviews, or high-profile appearances. She had been collecting them for over five years-ever since she first laid eyes on him.

Her father didn't know. No one did.

Not about the way she obsessed over him.

Not about the fantasies she spun late into the night, picturing herself trapped in one of those mafia stories-only with her as the heroine and Mikhail as the devil who would ruin her beyond repair.

That face. Those cold, merciless eyes. The satanic tattoos inked into one arm. His fingers, large and inked, rough yet skilled. She had imagined them tracing her skin. Controlling her. Claiming her.

Her breath hitched just thinking about it.

And she knew-knew it deep in her bones-that one day, fate would place her in his path. She would meet him. And when that moment came, he would want her.

She stood up and turned toward the full-length mirror.

Her long hair cascaded down her back in soft waves. Her hourglass figure, clad in silk, looked flawless even in the dim light. She traced her finger down her waist, lips curling into a smirk.

"Who wouldn't want me?" she whispered.

Her gaze darkened, pupils dilated with desire and delusion.

She isn't just dreaming about him.

She is manifesting him.

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Mikhail bent slightly to embrace his grandmother. His face remained stern as always-but his arms wrapped around her with the care of someone who, though forged in steel, had a sliver of warmth reserved only for her.

Tatiana Cozlov, once the regal czarina of the Cozlov legacy, looked up at him with eyes lined by time but still bright with wisdom.

"Finally," she said, her voice soft but teasing, "you remember this old woman still exists."

Mikhail lowered his gaze, brushing the back of her frail hand with his lips in silent reverence. "I could never forget my mentor, babulik," he said, the edge in his tone slightly dulled.

Leonid stepped forward and bowed with respectful precision. "Greetings, Tsarina."

Tatiana's expression melted into a smile as she reached out her arms. "Come now, don't act like a stranger."

Leonid chuckled under his breath and hugged her gently.

She gave his head a light slap, the way a grandmother scolds a favorite child. "Do I need to remind you every single time not to be so formal? You're just as much my grandson."

Leonid smiled, pulling back slightly. "Habits die hard, babushka."

"Well," she said, motioning them toward the sitting room, "if you're both done playing statues, come sit. I've brewed tea."

Mikhail's gaze swept across the vast expanse of the mansion, his sharp eyes lingering on every shadowed corner, every glint of gold and marble that seemed to mock him with memories he had long buried. There was a reason he rarely stepped foot here-this house reeked of ghosts. The one that made his monster took a lethel form.

He clenched his jaw, forcing down the storm swirling inside him. Leonid noticed the shift in his posture, the tension in his shoulders-but as always, he remained silent, a steady shadow beside his king.

They sat in the grand living room, ornate and quiet. Tatiana eased herself beside Mikhail, her hands resting gently on her lap. Her eyes, glassy with unshed emotion, turned to him with aching softness.

"Why won't you stay here, Mikhail?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you enjoy leaving this old woman alone in this tomb?"

Mikhail closed his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opened them again, they were colder. His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

"If it weren't for you, babulik, I would have burned this place to ashes."

Tatiana didn't flinch. She simply nodded, as if she had expected nothing less. Pain lived in her eyes, but it was familiar. Worn. Carried like an heirloom.

"But I miss you, malysh," she said quietly, the endearment falling from her lips like a prayer.

Mikhail exhaled through his nose, jaw still tight. He didn't want to hurt her. But he couldn't lie either.

Leonid, sensing the rising tension, cleared his throat and stepped in with gentle timing.

"Uhh, babushka... I think we should have the tea," he said, offering her a soft smile. "Before it gets cold."

Tatiana blinked the tears away and smiled back at him-grateful, knowing what he had done.

"Yes," she nodded, rising slowly. "Let me pour it. You boys never learned how to do it right anyway.

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she moved toward the tea set, Mikhail leaned back on the couch, eyes half-lidded-not out of peace, but exhaustion. And Leonid watched him closely, knowing this house isn't just a mansion.

It is a graveyard. One that buried his past so deep that it might take centuries for one to dig it again.