Charles raked a hand through his hair—a nervous habit—and frowned at his aged reflection.

He'd kept his hair natural because his third wife, Alyssa, had told him the grays at his temples made him look distinguished. Now the grays were everywhere. He could almost hear his fourth wife's derisive tone, telling him she'd gotten his assistant to schedule his botox appointments and that he should take the opportunity to get his hair dyed. That he couldn't look old and wrinkled in public and expect to keep her.

He hadn't kept her in the end, anyway. Hadn't kept any of them. Two had left with sizable monthly checks and two were no longer here. Not even all of the De Veers fortune could keep the reaper at bay.

Frustrated, he strode out of the restroom. He didn't have time to reminisce about his marriages. He had work to do, decisions to make, and much to think about after meeting with an "occultist." A notion he would've dismissed as ridiculous weeks ago, before the meddling of fae had thrown his family into disarray. The whole ordeal still made his head throb.

The De Veers weren't supposed to have their strings pulled. They were the puppet masters, always had been. The idea that supernatural beings could interfere, could influence his children's lives, was unacceptable. If these...creatures had the power to do this, what else could they do? How could he even stop them?

And the occultist had warned Charles about his own strange, magical bond. That he would know when he met his "bonded." The entire thing was absurd.

In his haste and distraction, Charles hadn't noticed someone walking in the opposite direction. They collided and his head shot up, his mouth already opening to argue, but he stopped short. The occultist's warning blared in his mind like an alarm.

"...Pardon me," he managed, mesmerized, his blue eyes locked on the person he'd bumped into. Instinctively, he crouched to pick up the stranger's scattered papers. Uncharacteristic behavior for him. "I wasn't paying attention." A pause. "Are you all right?"