Lucien Grey entered like a storm wrapped in velvet—quiet, then impossible to ignore. His gaze swept the room, cataloging every ego and weakness with ruthless precision. At the bar, he ordered a whiskey neat, fingers tapping against the glass as he observed.

Nearby, a woman laughed too loudly in an attempt to catch his attention.

“Darling,” he said smoothly, “your laugh is tragic, but I suppose some people are destined to be background music.”

The insult landed like a kiss wrapped around a blade. Lucien smirked and looked away. The night was young, the audience eager, and he was more than ready to perform.