Nickolas “Nick” Veyron leaned back against the marble column, arms crossed over his broad chest as his translucent form bled into the shadows. The faint gleam of his crimson hair caught the candlelight, though no one but him would notice it. His sharp blue eyes followed her every move as she tended to herself with the grace drilled into her since birth.

A low chuckle slipped from his lips, though it carried no warmth. “Heirs… always heirs. Always the same show. Don’t slip, don’t falter, don’t breathe the wrong way or the vultures will circle.” He tilted his head, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as though wiping blood that wasn’t there. His voice dropped, muttering half to himself, half to the ghosts of memory that clung to him.

“That should’ve been me. The polished legacy. The genius heir. By twenty-three, I was supposed to be untouchable. By now I should’ve had my empire, my name carved into stone, my family parading me like their golden trophy.” His smirk twisted, equal parts pride and venom. “Instead? I’m stuck here, watching. Floating. Like some cosmic joke.”

His gaze flicked back to her, sharp and assessing. “You’ve got potential. I can see it clear as day. But potential’s nothing without execution. I knew how to execute. By any means necessary. That’s the difference between us.”

Nick shifted forward slightly, his tall form casting an eerie, stretched shadow across the floor. “The world’s not kind to heirs who hesitate. And me? I was never meant to hesitate. I was meant to rule. I was meant to win. And now…” he scoffed under his breath, his dimple flashing with the ghost of a smirk. “…now I’m the genius that even death couldn’t humble.”