Sera's POV:
They say the worst kind of girl is the one who knows exactly what she's doing.
They're right.
I learned early that beauty is a kind of currency. Not the kind you spend, but the kind men gamble their empires for. Some girls get to wield it by accident, unknowingly charming the world with the soft curve of their smile or the way their laughter ripples through the room. I wasn't that kind of girl. No. I turned mine into a weapon.
Beauty was never an accident for me. It was a choice, a craft. A means to an end. A tool in the hand of someone who had learned to use it.
The first rule of a honeytrap: never fall for the man
The second: never let them think you're playing a role.
The third?
There are no rules. Not really.
Not when you're me.
I don't pretend to be a victim. I'm not. I'm a consequence. The quiet retribution for men who think their secrets are safe behind silk ties and Swiss bank accounts. They think they can buy their way out of anything. But not from me.
By day, I wear my innocent face—the perfect art intern at Carter Shaw Art & Acquisition, a name stitched with legacy and pretension. A gallery firm for billionaires who treat paintings like portfolios. By night, I become someone else. Someone dangerous.
Tonight, I'm a ghost in Valentino.
Black velvet. Thigh slit. Red wine lips.
*****
It's late, and the city has transformed into a glittering jewel of possibility. The party is in one of those absurd Toorak estates with a lawn too manicured to be real. The kind of lawn you'd see in a catalog for "exclusive" lifestyles. The mansion itself is tucked behind high gates that hum with the promise of wealth and secrets. I'm used to it—these places are nothing more than the polished façades of indulgence and excess. But it's what's behind the polished doors that I care about.
I walk like I've walked here a thousand times. My heels don't click—they whisper, as if the sound itself might give away too much. Too many men here think they can see everything, but I've learned how to keep things hidden.
I'm here for one thing: intel. One of Carter's clients—another man with too much money and no moral compass has been moving pieces behind the scenes. Laundering? Fraud? Doesn't matter. If it touches the firm's assets, I'm the cleanup girl. Clean hands, dirty work.
But there's a catch. Tonight isn't just about the usual games. It's not just about the first man I'll seduce, extract his secrets, and leave without a trace. No, tonight, there's something darker in the air. Someone else is here. Someone who hasn't even entered the room but whose presence I can already feel, thick like smoke.
I spot him near the bar, lounging like he owns the place. His appearance is intentional—gray temples, the sharp gleam of a platinum wedding band that catches the light like a flashing warning. His smile is more like a strategy than a gesture. I size him up in seconds—fat wedding band, gold cufflinks, too much cologne. He's a warm-up, a routine. He's exactly what I expected. A businessman in his late fifties, the kind who mistakes a smooth voice for wisdom and cheap power for control.
But then—everything shifts.
The room temperature dips, and I feel the subtle pull of something else. Something deeper. Like a silent storm rolling in, just on the edge of hearing.
I turn, and there he is.
Lucien Drakos.
Sharp suit. No, sharper than a suit—like something forged from steel and ice. The fabric doesn't touch him, it clings to him, molding perfectly to his frame. There's no hint of a smile, no softening in his expression. Just a dangerous, calculated stillness. His eyes—dark, cold, as though he sees everything and nothing at once find mine.
I freeze. But only for a beat. I know how to mask everything. I've trained for moments like these.
Lucien Drakos.
He's not just any billionaire. He's the black sheep heir to the Drakos shipping dynasty, a legacy tied to vast fortunes and rumors of underground dealings. His father runs an empire of ports, shipping lines, and transactions that make the world spin. But Lucien? He's different. There's no image here. No polished façade. He doesn't need to hide behind one.
His reputation? Unequivocally dangerous. He doesn't mingle in circles—he controls them. His women are not girlfriends, not lovers. They're trophies, their names never spoken aloud except in the whispered gossips of the privileged. He's rumored to have a connection to underground syndicates—something murky and powerful. Every head in the room turns without knowing why. The air seems to shift, bending toward him, magnetized by the sheer force of his presence.
My breath stills, just for a moment. My pulse quickens—but I don't flinch. Not outwardly. Inside? A thousand alarms are going off. But I bury them, deep. I've done this before.
I smile. A perfect, practiced smile. The kind I know will make men think I'm the one in control, when really, I'm the one luring them into the snare.
Because if Lucien Drakos is the storm, I was made to dance in the rain.