Page 3 of Her Alien Owner

I move on before they notice me lingering too long, my mind racing with questions about Valen’s past and his mysterious wealth. The more I hear, the more I want to know about him.

He catches me looking again, and this time he doesn’t look away immediately. There’s an intensity in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine—equal parts allure and warning.

I return to serving drinks but can't shake the feeling that there's much more to Valen than meets the eye. The mystery surrounding him only makes him more magnetic, drawing me in despite myself.

As I pass by another group of guests speculating about Valen’s origins—some suggesting he might be involved in something even darker—I realize just how much I've become captivated by this enigmatic kilgari man.

The night wears on, but my curiosity only grows stronger with each passing minute spent in his presence. Who is Valen really? And why do I feel this undeniable pull toward him?

CHAPTER 2

VALEN

The wine in my glass barely moves as I swirl it, half-listening to Lord Reichenbach's endless prattle about his latest business venture. My eyes, however, are drawn to a figure moving through the crowd below. She navigates the sea of gaudy gowns and stiff tuxedos with a grace that seems almost accidental, like a dancer unaware of her own elegance.

"And then, of course, we had to outbid the Rivka Consortium," Reichenbach drones on. "Quite a feat, I assure you."

"Fascinating," I murmur, my gaze locked on the woman in the plain maid's dress. She stands out precisely because she doesn't try to. Her long brown hair falls in waves, catching the light in a way that no diamond necklace could.

"Indeed. Quite fascinating," Reichenbach repeats, oblivious to my distraction.

She pauses near the edge of the ballroom, scanning the room with wide-set eyes the color of rich milk chocolate. A luxury in this world. She doesn’t belong here; that's clear from her modest attire and unadorned demeanor. Yet she carries herself with a dignity that rivals any aristocrat present.

Reichenbach’s voice grates on my ears as he continues his monologue. "The key is diversification. You can never have too many irons in the fire."

"Of course," I reply, more out of habit than interest. I take a sip of my wine, letting its rich flavor roll over my tongue while my mind drifts to more intriguing matters.

She catches sight of me—or perhaps just the balcony—and her eyes linger for a moment before she resumes her duties, balancing a tray of empty glasses with practiced ease. Who is she? And why does she seem so different from everyone else here?

My eyes scan the ballroom, taking in the throng of guests that fill my estate. Each face here has a purpose, a reason for their inclusion on the list. It would raise eyebrows if any one of them were absent, and so they come, like moths to a flame. They flit around, their laughter and chatter a buzz that fills the air, but none of it reaches me. I'm here, yet I'm not.

Reichenbach rambles on beside me, oblivious to my disinterest. “We had to outmaneuver several competitors. Quite the strategic play.”

I nod absently, my focus drifting once more to the figure in the plain dress. She weaves through the crowd with an unassuming grace, her movements fluid and natural. Unlike these guests who hide behind their masks of wealth and power, she is genuine. She doesn’t belong in this world of opulence and deceit, yet she stands out because of it.

Why does she interest me so? Perhaps it's her authenticity in a room full of artifice. Or maybe it’s something deeper, something I can’t quite put into words. My guests serve as distractions, pawns in my game of information gathering. Each conversation is a thread in the web I weave to maintain control and stay ahead.

Reichenbach clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him for a moment.

“Indeed,” I reply, though my mind is elsewhere.

“Valen,” Reichenbach says, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes,” I answer, my tone clipped. “But some conversations are more compelling than others.”

He frowns but says nothing more, turning his attention back to his drink.

The evening wears on, but my thoughts remain fixed on her. She is a mystery I intend to unravel, one layer at a time.

The buzz of the party fades as I slip into the shadowed hallway, away from prying eyes and insipid conversations. I find my aide, Tragan, near the service entrance, meticulously checking the guest list on his tablet.

"Tragan," I say, keeping my voice low but authoritative. He looks up immediately, his posture straightening.

"Yes, sir?"

"That woman," I begin, not needing to elaborate. He knows me well enough to follow my line of sight without question. "The one with the brown hair, carrying the tray."

Tragan’s eyes narrow slightly as he processes the request. "Ah, you mean Ariana?"

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