SEBASTIAN'S POV
A few minutes before the piano mishap—
Curiosity is a curse for a man like me—once it takes root, I either destroy the object of my intrigue or keep it for life.
My throat tightens like I've swallowed glass the moment my eyes land on Anaya, dancing in the arms of the man everyone here whispers about—Mathew Huang, heir to Hong Kong's most powerful tech dynasty.
His hand on her waist, her fingers resting on his shoulder—too effortless, too familiar. Their steps are fluid, sharp with tension anyone with a sliver of awareness could detect.
She looks at him with a mix of resentment and... something almost wistful.
He, on the other hand, gazes at her like she's a sacred relic—lost due to his own idiocy, and now, he's desperate to reclaim her.
I'm damn good at reading eyes. You learn that before reading textbooks in the circles I was raised in.
His are full of regret.
Hers are emptied of any care.
"Sebastian, you're going to burn a hole through the poor guy's skull," Markus mutters, smirking. I ignore him.
"Get one of my men dressed as staff to spill water on the piano." My tone is cold, controlled.
Markus frowns. "That'll ruin the set. People backstage will get chewed out."
I sip my wine, pretending to be engaged. "And I'm supposed to care? I don't like what I'm seeing."
He scoffs. "You sound like a jealous boyfriend." Still, he rises to do as I asked.
My jaw twitches when I see Mathew lean in—just a bit too close. Anaya looks up at him with frosty detachment, yet her poised smile says more than words ever could.
So, the story goes, they were in the same university, close until she cut him off after prom. Apparently, they practiced that very dance together, unofficially. But he took someone else as his date, making his rejection loud and clear.
He seems regretful.
She seems like she forgot.
A twitch pulls at the corner of my lips when she gives him that look—calm, indifferent, untouchable.
Then the music halts. She doesn't miss a beat before turning away from Mathew and heading toward the disturbance.
She positions herself behind Louis Laurant and smoothly instructs him to seduce Ana Margaret—yes, the Ana Margaret, society's darling opera singer, and Louis just so happens to be her type.
Anaya doesn't bluff. Doesn't panic. She moves like she knows she'll win, even when chaos hits.
That eerie calm makes me want to disrupt her—see what cracks when the mask slips.
And she turns, clearly feeling my stare. Her expression tightens.
Annoyed. Unimpressed. She doesn't bother hiding it.
So I mouth, "Impressive work."
Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly—like she's about to bury me six feet under. Almost makes me laugh.
She ignores me and glides to the champagne fountain like it's the main attraction of the night.
Soon after, Louis succeeds. Ana Margaret takes the stage. The lights dim.
I still see her.
And like some damned phantom, I find myself moving toward her.
"Handled that crisis well, Anaya." Her name on my lips—unsettlingly natural.
Her shoulders stiffen. Up close, the height difference becomes oddly... charming?
"I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Von Kleist."
Mr. Von Kleist. Was my surname always this intoxicating, or am I spiraling?
"To get Ana Margaret onstage with no prep?" I lower my voice. "You are smart. A wolf hiding in sheep's clothing."
She doesn't like that.
She freezes for a split second, weighing whether to play the innocent analyst or let her real self bleed through.
She chooses the latter.
Unflinching. Daring. Uninterested.
As Ana starts singing... a tale of a sinner falling in love with an angel.
.........
What's wrong with me? Why am I explaining opera to a woman who looks like she'd rather impale me than make small talk?
Still, I continue.
The theme of the aria—agonizing.
A man who had it all—wealth, fame, reverence—but nothing true. A sinner, fully aware of his own damnation. No desire for redemption. No faith in higher powers.
God, it sounds like me. Self-Aware A**hole.
But then he meets her—an angel on a divine mission. She gives him warmth he never believed he could feel.
The more she shines, the more he wants her. The more she gives, the more he clings.
But he doesn't try to become worthy. No. He cages her, clips her wings.
She stops smiling.
Stops glowing.
Eventually withers like a flower trapped in a coffin of gold.
Even in her burial, his regret isn't that he held on too tightly—it's that he didn't become her sky. If he had, maybe she would have stayed. Alive. Bright. Free.
The song is from his point of view—the damned who didn't realize love required freedom even at the end.
My chest tightens. The theme of the story bothered me more than it should.
That man didn't have the courage to let go of sin, even when offered a reason.
What a fool!
I just never had the reason.
Or the angel.
How I wish I did.
How I wish I could walk away from this blood-soaked, fame-hungry, legacy-obsessed world.
I don't realize I've spoken all this aloud until Anaya murmurs, "That's disgusting." Her lips curl. "Disturbing. No sane person would do that."
She's not wrong.
No sane man would.
But how do you explain to a woman like her that some sinners long for light even before they know what light is?
I nod. "You're right. No sane person would."
The lights return. Applause erupts around us. Yet all I see is her.
Her nod is brief—polite.
A goodbye.
It should have ended there.
But I had to say something. Just to see her unravel.
So I drop the match. Mention the piano stunt—my doing.
Her jaw tenses. Brows lift slightly. Chocolate-brown eyes narrow with pure, unfiltered hatred.
She doesn't even fake a smile this time.
If I weren't a Von Kleist, she might have slapped me right there.
"I look forward to seeing how you'll continue to entertain me," I add with a smirk.
She returns a smile sharp enough to draw blood.
"Acting is your job, Mr. Von Kleist," she says icily. "I'm not a puppet in your show."
That nearly cracks a smile from me. Nearly.
Of course, she isn't a puppet. She was never part of the script.
Until a week ago, the name Anaya Bae Fernandes meant nothing to my meticulously constructed life—where every move was dictated by my father or me.
I turn to leave but toss one last comment over my shoulder.
"I appreciate that mentality."
She gasps—just faintly, gritting her teeth. I wonder if she were on the paler side, would her face have turned red from fury and murderous intent?
And behind me, I can still feel her gaze, intense and vengeful, like a storm bottled in silence.
I'll get over this curiosity soon enough.
But until then?
Poking the chameleon in Louboutins and overly modest corporate skirts sounds like an entertaining distraction.
What happens to her after my curiosity fades… isn't my problem.
No, it shouldn't be my problem.