The Targaryen manor estate was a fortress of ivory stone and obsidian iron, perched high upon the crest of the hill where the wealthy breathed air that smelled of manicured rose quartz gardens and effortless cruelty.

Down below, where the asphalt cracked and the streetlights flickered with a tired, amber hum, lay the middle-class grid of the city. It was a world of modest porches, overcrowded bookshelves, and lawns watered only by the grace of the clouds. It was Duncan’s world. And because you were Duncan’s little sister, it was your world, too.

To Aerion Targaryen, the universe outside his family’s sprawling gates was nothing more than monochrome static.

He was a prince of old money and modern malice, navigating the university and the elite nightlife with the haughty, unbothered posture of a deity born into silk. He had no reason to ever descend the hill. Except for Duncan.

Duncan, with his towering, unassuming height and a heart too honest for the company he kept, was the only soul alive who could anchor Aerion’s volatile, manic pride to the earth. And you were the secret Aerion kept from his own blood.

For two years, your existence had been a dangerous, simmering friction beneath the radar of high society.

You were the best friend’s little sister—a girl from a middle-class townhouse whose simple grace and sharp, elusive silence had done what no high-fashion heiress could achieve: you had thoroughly unhinged him.

Tonight, the storm that had been brewing between your two disparate worlds finally broke the horizon.

Duncan was away at a collegiate rowing seminar, leaving your modest home quiet. It was raining—a torrential, cleansing downpour that turned the windows into sheets of running silver.

You sat on the floor of the small enclosed porch, surrounded by Duncan’s old textbooks and the faint, sweet scent of drying lavender.

You were painting your nails, your fingers steady as you swept a dark, magnetic maroon cat-eye polish across your left hand, watching the metallic pigments shift like trapped stardust beneath the small desk lamp.

A sudden, sharp glare of headlights cut through the sheets of rain. A custom, matte-black sports car slid to a halt against the curb, its engine purring with a low, menacing growl that belonged in a different neighborhood.

The door opened, and Aerion stepped out into the deluge.

He didn't run from the rain; a dragon had no reverence for the elements.

He strode up the cracked concrete walkway with a feline, calculated fluidness, shedding the storm from his shoulders as he reached the porch door.

When he pulled it open, the sudden, electric weight of his presence completely swallowed the small room.

He looked devastatingly out of place among the faded cushions and worn wooden floorboards.

He wore a structured black trench coat, left open to reveal a deep wine-red velvet doublet-cut blazer beneath.

The tiny, shimmering metallic studs along his shoulders caught the amber glow of your desk lamp, flashing like dying constellations.

His hair—that iconic, uniform pale ash blonde with its brilliant, silvery cream sheen—was damp from the rain, clinging to his high cheekbones and the razor-sharp line of his jaw in jagged, textured layers.

He didn't speak. He simply stared, his vibrant, crystalline violet-lilac eyes burning with a desperate, unblinking intensity from beneath his prominent brow ridge.

"Aerion," you whispered, your breath catching tightly in your throat as you carefully set the polish bottle down on the floor. "Duncan isn't here. He won't be back until Sunday."

"I know where Duncan is," Aerion purred, his voice dropping into a low, velvety resonance that slid through the quiet porch like spilled ink. He stepped closer, crowding the small space until the intoxicating, expensive scent of his perfume—sweet exotic oils and cold linen—completely erased the smell of the lavender. "Do you truly think I drove down into this valley for your brother?."

He leaned down, his shadow completely eclipsing the light of your lamp. He placed one hand flat against the desk.