Page 45 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

My heart pounds beneath the crimson suit, but years of runway experience keep my expression neutral. Each step toward the podium feels like an eternity, the sound of my shoes against marble echoing through the suddenly silent ballroom.

"Where are the others?"

"Benedict's missing..."

"Matteo too..."

"And their Maiden?"

The whispers follow me like shadows, growing bolder with each step. By the time I reach the stage, the murmurs have become a steady stream of commentary.

"They need their Queen for Ascension?—"

"Can't crown Kings without a Maiden?—"

"He's breaking every rule..."

Mr. Leighton's eyes meet mine as I take my position beside him. Though his face remains impassive, I catch the flicker of concern in his gaze – the same look he gave Matteo during particularly risky operations.

"Albrecht,” he addresses me formally, though we both know he's attended enough of my birthday parties to call me by first name. "Where are your fellow Ruthless Kings and your Queen?"

The spotlight feels hotter than any fashion show lighting, but I don't flinch. Instead, I channel something of Zander's dangerous grace, Matteo's quiet authority.

"Due to unavoidable circumstances," my voice carries clearly through the hall, "some members of our court are temporarily indisposed. However," I add with careful precision, "our Maiden is present and will be joining us shortly."

Gasps and mutters ripple through the crowd. Someone actually laughs in disbelief.

"The audacity?—"

"Three Kings missing?"

"He can't possibly think?—"

But Mr. Leighton sees something in my stance that makes him pause. The worry in his eyes shifts to something else – recognition, perhaps, of the same steel that runs through his own veins.

"You understand," he says carefully, "the requirements for Ascension?"

"Perfectly, sir." The smile I give him isn't one I've ever used on a camera. It's sharper, more dangerous – more real. "Everything has been arranged."

More whispers erupt, the crowd unable to comprehend how I can stand here, seemingly breaking every sacred rule of their society, yet maintaining such confidence. They see the pretty model in his blood-red suit, but they're starting to sense something else beneath the surface.

"He's lost his mind?—"

"The pressure must have broken him?—"

"Someone should stop this farce?—"

But no one moves. No one dares approach. Because something in my posture, in my eyes, tells them that the mask has finally cracked – and what lies beneath might be more than they're prepared to handle.

A ripple of electricity courses through the crowd as Saint Joaquin walks down the platform until he’s beside Mr. Leighton. His presence alone commands a different kind of respect – not born from institutional power or family legacy, but from the kind of influence that can make people disappear without a trace.

Even in my years of high-fashion circles, I've never seen someone wear wealth so effortlessly. His black suit probably costs more than most people's houses, but it's the casualconfidence in his movements that truly speaks of his power. Every drug lord, crime boss, and underground king in this room has answered to him at some point.

"My friends," his voice carries a hint of Spanish aristocracy, smooth as aged whiskey. "Tonight's unexpected summons was, as some of you have guessed, quite intentional."

The whispers die completely. When Saint Joaquin speaks, even the most entitled heirs know to stay silent.

"This shift in our traditional timeline serves a greater purpose," he continues, moving across the stage with predatory grace. "One that requires immediate attention and..." his eyes find mine with unsettling intensity, "adaptation."

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