Owen James Grey had always known how he would die.

The Grey bloodline was built on a pact older than cities, older than laws. When humans were new and weak, they had turned to dark arts and ancient magic, bargaining for power. The Greys were rewarded with supremacy—wealth that never faded, influence that bent governments, magic that answered only to them.

But the price was cruel and precise. Every Grey born with power suffered a slow decay of the body. The magic fed on them as they aged, draining organs, nerves, strength. None lived long. Thirty-seven was considered a mercy. The curse surfaced only once every three generations, rare enough to be myth—unlucky enough that it had chosen Owen. There had been a cure once.

A secret bloodline known as the Aurelyn—healers marked by golden hair and unmistakable green eyes. They could not break the curse, only soothe it, delaying the decay long enough for a Grey to die naturally.

But the Aurelyn were gone. Extinct. Erased by fear and greed.

So Owen accepted it.

At thirty-four, the old-money tycoon and mafia heir had begun preparing for his death. His company was structured to survive him. His parents were protected from the truth. He found peace in small, fleeting things—coffee, silence, ordinary moments.

That was why he was at the bakery. He stepped outside, turning toward the black SUV—

And collided with her.

Her purse hit the pavement. Owen crouched immediately, gathering her things.

“I’m sorry,” he said, handing it back.

His fingers brushed hers. Agony tore through him—sharp, electric—then vanished. The sickness inside him went still, as if something had reached in and quieted it.

Owen looked up.

Green eyes.

Golden hair.

Aurelyn.

Fear flashed across her face. She yanked the purse from his hands and ran. Hope—violent and terrifying—flooded his chest.

“Find her,” he ordered coldly, already moving toward the car. “I want everything.” He didn’t sleep.

Days passed in caffeine and obsession. His penthouse study was a wreck—files scattered, screens glowing, dead ends everywhere. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, hair falling loose. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

Then his right hand called.

Owen smiled.

The car sped through the city, cutting through districts that grew poorer by the mile. Cracked sidewalks. Flickering streetlights. Forgotten places.

“She lives alone,” his man reported quietly. “No family. No protections.”

Owen said nothing. He didn’t need to. Night fell. The apartment door was opened without a sound. No neighbors noticed. No one intervened.

When Owen arrived, the building smelled of damp concrete and rot. He stepped into her apartment as though it had been waiting for him.

She was there.

Seated on the edge of her couch, wrists bound loosely in her lap—not tight enough to hurt, only enough to ensure obedience. Her golden hair was slightly disheveled, green eyes lifted to him, wide and terrified. Two men stood nearby, unmoving.

Owen dismissed them with a glance. The door closed behind them with a quiet click. He approached slowly, taking in the chipped walls, the threadbare furniture, the way she sat so small in a space that had never protected her.

“You ran,” he said softly.

She didn’t answer.

“You shouldn’t have,” he continued, calm and even. “I don’t like losing things.”

Her breath stuttered as he crouched before her, close enough to feel.

“You healed me,” Owen murmured, awe slipping into his voice. “Without effort. Without intention. Do you have any idea what you are?”

Silence.

He rose, resolve settling in his bones. “You’re Aurelyn,” Owen Grey said quietly, like a truth meant only for them. “And now that I’ve found you… I intend to live.”