Michael slowly opened his eyes behind his sunglasses. He looked down at his arm. Aria’s small, pale hand was clutching his wrist tightly. She was holding him, looking up at his covered face with tear-filled, terrified eyes, completely unaffected, completely unharmed, and utterly immune.An electric hum vibrated through Michael’s blood, but it wasn't painful. It was a profound, cosmic resonance. The Silar diary rule flashed silently in his memory: Wealth beyond measure requires pure isolation—unless he finds absolute truth.She was the single woman on Earth immune to his curse. Yes, within the past few days, Michael experiment from the maid’s, his yoga teacher, from the rest of his mansion staff and he had experienced the same pain that made him swore to never touch a single woman in his life…and yet, here he was…shocked at the mere warm radiating from this floral wearing woman.Michael slowly turned his head toward Edmond Miller, who was scrambling backward on his hands and knees, te

Meanwhile, on the 40th floor of The Grand Royal, Marcos Richardson stepped into his lavish executive suite, a cold, calculated smirk spreading across his face.He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass panel, swirling two fingers of neat thirty-year-old single malt scotch in a crystal tumbler. Every move he made was a transaction, every relationship a piece on his global chessboard.Edmond Miller thought he was playing Marcos. The greedy accountant truly believed he was getting the upper hand by accepting Aria as a side-trifle in exchange for handing over Silas August’s personal archives—specifically, the late titan's private leather-bound diary. Edmond had promised he would search every hidden safe in the stolen Tribeca mansion to deliver it by the end of the week.Marcos took a slow sip, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looked down at the glittering lights of Manhattan. He didn't care about the Miller family's petty scams, nor did he care about their inflated egos. But Silas Augu

Meanwhile…The morning after Aria’s desperate late-night escape, she felt as though she had tumbled straight into a surreal, gilded dream.Lumi had escorted her into the sky-lobby of Manhattan’s most exclusive residential tower, ushering her into a private penthouse that defied reality. Double-height ceilings, floor-to-ceiling glass looking down over the misty expanse of Central Park, museum-grade art hanging casually on the walls, and a quiet, imposing atmosphere of absolute power. She had been assigned her own private suite just one floor below, a space larger than her family’s entire estate in London, along with a brand-new white Range Rover parked in the VIP garage.Yet, as overwhelming as the luxury was, her actual job description left her entirely bewildered.After signing a thick, ironclad non-disclosure agreement presented by Red Viktor, one that explicitly bound her to total secrecy, she was given her core duties. On paper, she was appointed as the Executive Director and C

Michael reached up, unhooking his dark sunglasses and slowly lowering the gold medical mask, exposing his face to the warm afternoon light.Aria’s breath caught subtly in her throat. Without the artificial barriers obscuring his features, his face was striking, a razor-sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and dark, intense eyes that carried a quiet, terrifying depth. He was undeniably handsome, but as her gaze lingered on his face, her brows knit together in a deep, perplexed frown.A strange, haunting sensation flickered at the back of her mind.She stared at him, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw and the subtle curve of his brow. I know him, her mind whispered, a sudden prickle of warmth washing over her skin. She was sure of it—sure as hell that she had seen those exact eyes before, and heard that low, velvet baritone echoing in a space far away from Central Park. It wasn't a vague feeling; it was a ghost of a memory, buried under two years of trauma, betrayal, and dark rooms. But

Before heading back to the waiting Rolls-Royce, Michael guided Aria to a hyper-exclusive Italian restaurant hidden behind an unmarked mahogany door off Fifth Avenue.Inside, beneath warm crystal light and surrounded by the scent of black truffles and freshly kneaded pasta, Aria ate in quiet marvel. Michael barely touched his dish. He watched her eat, taking subtle satisfaction in seeing her cheeks flush with color and her shoulders finally relax.After dinner, Michael led the group down a cobblestone side street toward an unbranded, high-security boutique. The shop had no display windows, no neon signs, and no public entry—it catered strictly to global royalty, billionaires, and private heads of state.The moment Michael pushed open the heavy brass door, the head tailor, an impeccably dressed elder Italian man, instantly bowed his head in deep reverence."Ah, Mr. August," the tailor spoke softly, his voice trembling with immediate respect. "It is an absolute honor to see you again. C