Page 4 of Her Alien Owner

"Ariana," I repeat, savoring the sound of her name. "Who is she?"

"One of the locals we hired for the evening," he replies, his tone casual but efficient. "She’s not a professional—just someone from Armstrong looking for work."

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Not a professional? And yet she carries herself with more grace than half these aristocrats."

Tragan chuckles softly. "That's often how it goes, sir. The genuine ones tend to stand out."

"Hmm," I muse, letting my gaze drift back towards the ballroom where she moves like a whisper among shouts. "Any more details?"

He shrugs. "Not much to tell. Lives in one of the poorer districts—scrapes by with odd jobs. Hard worker by all accounts. Ah, there's a note here from her interview. Very charming and eager personality. Well, I wouldn't hire anything less."

"Interesting." I keep my tone neutral, not wanting to reveal just how much this information piques my curiosity.

"Should I dig deeper?" Tragan asks, ever perceptive.

"No need," I reply smoothly. "Just… keep an eye on her."

"As you wish," he says with a nod before returning to his duties.

I lean against the wall for a moment, absorbing what I've learned. Ariana—just a local woman struggling to make ends meet in this broken city. Yet she radiates something none of these pampered guests possess: authenticity.

The idea that she's simply working here for some extra credits makes her even more intriguing. She isn’t bound by the superficialities that imprison so many others in this room. There's a rawness to her presence that calls to something deep within me—a desire for something real in a world full of pretense.

I push off from the wall and make my way back toward the party, slipping seamlessly into the crowd once more.

I glide through the crowd, my expression a carefully crafted mask of polite interest. Each step measured, each nod calculated. The guests surround me like planets orbiting a star, drawn to my presence but never quite reaching me.

“Valen, good to see you,” says Lady Thera, her voice dripping with false warmth. Her eyes flicker over my frame, lingering on the horns that mark me as kilgari.

“Lady Thera,” I reply with a slight bow. “How’s your family faring these days?”

She launches into a monologue about her latest charity endeavors and her son’s entrance into the Trident Academy. I let her words wash over me, nodding at the right moments while mentally cataloging every detail. Thera’s family has connections to several influential trade routes; useful information for later.

“Have you considered expanding your charity work to Armstrong’s poorer districts?” I ask smoothly, steering the conversation.

Her eyes widen slightly. “Well, we hadn’t thought about it...but it could be beneficial.”

“Yes,” I say, my tone encouraging. “The planet still suffers from the war’s aftermath. It could elevate your standing considerably.”

She smiles, clearly pleased with the idea. “I’ll discuss it with my husband.”

As she moves on, I catch snippets of hushed conversations around me.

“He’s so enigmatic,” someone whispers behind a fan.

“They say he’s got ties to both sides from the war,” another voice murmurs.

The rumors swirl like smoke in the air, thick and pervasive. They never bother me; if anything, they serve their purpose well—keeping people on edge and off-balance.

“Valen,” a gruff voice interrupts my thoughts. Lord Garrick stands before me, his face flushed from too much wine. “I was just telling Lady Mirella about our new mining venture on Helios IV.”

“Is that so?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Helios IV is known for its harsh conditions.”

Garrick puffs up his chest. “Nothing we can’t handle. The returns will be worth it.”

“I’m sure they will be,” I say evenly. “Just ensure your equipment is up to date; those storms can be...unpredictable.”

He chuckles boisterously, clapping me on the shoulder. “Always looking out for us, aren’t you?”

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