Chapter 19
Q's POV – The First Time I Saw Her
It was supposed to be routine.
Another auction. Another night of flesh and fortune.
They held it in the underground belly of Marseille’s oldest shipyard, disguised as a forgotten art gala. The kind of place where billionaires wore wolves’ smiles and blood was currency. Where the women were drugged to silence and men held paddles like gods deciding the worth of a soul.
I was only there for the show. To remind the underworld that I still ruled it. I didn’t need to buy anything—not tonight.
Until her.
Until Neaveh.
My mask was red velvet, trimmed with gold—a cruel nod to the sins I'd buried beneath silk suits and polite civility. They called me "Le Fantôme Rouge" in whispered breaths. The Red Phantom. Myth and monster. The head of the Thorns, the oldest French syndicate still pulling strings in a world too blind to see them.
From my seat at the back of the chamber, I watched as girl after girl was led to the platform. Each one is more docile than the last. Drugged. Obedient. Puppets waiting for new masters to pull their strings.
Then the room shifted.
A guard shoved a girl onto the stage.
She stumbled, fell to one knee, then snapped upright with the fury of a wildfire.
Her hair was a halo of auburn chaos, eyes sharp with panic and rage. She blinked against the spotlights like a caged animal caught in high beams. The bruises on her arms were fresh, red blooming like poppies over pale skin. Her chest heaved, bloodied lip trembling, but she didn’t beg.
She glared.
That was the moment.
I froze. My blood thickened. The air turned electric. Her defiance ripped through the room like a scream.
She didn’t belong here. And yet, she did. Perfectly.
"Next, a rare offering," the auctioneer purred into the mic, unaware of the storm he’d just unleashed. "Unbroken. Alpha Defiant. High risk, high reward."
Men stirred. Murmurs passed. Paddles began to rise.
She didn’t flinch at the numbers being called. She didn’t react to the money thrown in the air like confetti. Her eyes scanned the crowd, wild, searching. Looking for someone—anyone.
And then she found me.
Her gaze locked on my mask. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
She took a shaky step back. Her breath caught. "H-Help..."
The room laughed.
Her throat spasmed. She tried again. "H-help... m–me..."
My heartbeat slowed. My vision tunneled. That voice. That trembling, raw voice. It wasn’t a plea. It was the last gasp before a scream. A girl ready to leap into death rather than surrender.
She screamed.
And I raised my banner.
High. Silent. Unmistakable.
The entire room paused.
"Bid received," the auctioneer stuttered. "From Le Fantôme Rouge."
No one dared bid after me. They knew better.
She didn’t understand what that banner meant. But she would.
They dragged her offstage, fighting the whole way. Biting. Kicking. Alive.
My consigliere leaned in. "That wasn’t the plan."
I still couldn’t take my eyes off the empty stage.
"No," I said. "It wasn’t."
Back in Paris, I stood in my surveillance room, fingers clenched around a crystal glass. The wine inside trembled with my pulse.
Neaveh appeared on-screen, sitting cross-legged on the bed in her new room, hugging her knees. She hadn't touched the food. Her face was streaked with salt, but no fresh tears.
She hadn't broken.
Not yet.
That was the difference between her and the others.
They arrived already hollowed. Ready to be filled.
But Neveah? She was full of fire. Full of fight. That made her dangerous. Addictive. Perfect.
I traced her image on the screen, heart pounding. My empire was built on obedience, on fear and rules. But she thrilled me. Made me feel like the young, reckless heir I once was—before blood made me king.
God, what would it feel like to tame her?
Not break.
Tame.
To have her offer herself not because I forced her, but because she couldn’t stay away?
What would it feel like to kiss her and know it was hate burning in her mouth?
I closed my eyes.
The auction. Her scream. That last look before the curtain fell.
She still doesn’t know.
That I was there months before that night. That I'd seen her in Tulum. Laughing. Running barefoot with a boy she clung to like a lifeline.
She was radiant in that sunlight.
I’d never been jealous of a man before. Not until Brax.
I followed them. Watched from shadows. Every morning run. Every tourist trap. Every kiss they thought was private.
And then, when I learned who her father was—a debt-riddled shell of a man with enemies in my circles—I saw my chance.
I didn’t have to take her by force. She was given to me.
I merely... accepted.
It wasn't business. It was an obsession.
And obsession doesn't ask for permission.
On the screen, she moved. Crawled across the bed like her legs ached. Her head tilted toward the camera. She couldn’t see it, not really. But something in her sensed it. Me.
A jolt shot through me.
Did she know I was watching?
Always watching?
I leaned closer to the monitor.
Her lips moved.
I turned up the volume, but there was no sound.
Just one word.
It was his name.
"ADRIAN"
Her voice was a ghost. A wound reopened.
Rage boiled.
She still clung to him. Even here. Even after I tore her world apart.
Good. Let her remember. Let the ache of his absence deepen the void I’ll eventually fill.
She doesn’t know it yet, but the moment she locked eyes with me on that stage, her fate was sealed.
I wasn’t the villain of her story.
I was her beginning.
Her first real nightmare.
And maybe...
Her last love.
Because one day, she’ll stop whispering his name.
And start screaming mine.