Page 13 of The Devil's Canvas

Idon’tattendmortalcelebrations.They’re boring and a waste of time. But at least this one has alcohol.

I knew it the moment I stepped through the doors— wealth pressed against every surface, suffocating in its extravagance. Gold-trimmed tables stretch beneath chandeliers, their crystal facets refracting artificial warmth. The scent of expensive perfume and freshly cut flowers clings to the air, mixing with the undertone of champagne and desperation.

Another human spectacle. Another display of power disguised as romance. I should leave.

And yet, I stay.

Something feels off.

I straighten my tie as I step inside, the fabric smooth beneath my fingers. My suit is dark, crisp, tailored to fit a presence that was never invited yet never questioned. A shade too sharp for a place meant to feel warm. A hint of midnight against the forced glow of celebration.

Something pulled me to this moment. I trust my intuition, it’s never led me astray before.

I sigh and grab a flute of champagne, taking an idle sip as I scan the room. This is the wedding of Melanie Arden, the pinnacle of a deal sealed ten years ago. Her father bargained for success, and he received it. She is at her peak, thriving, untouchable. She is not a failure.

Which means it isn’t time to collect.

I may never collect Cassius Arden’s soul at all. Who knows? Melanie may always be successful. That’s what they wanted, isn’t it? They don’t care about the price.

Pride is something. Ego is more.

I walk further into the venue.

The ceremony is over. The applause has died, the vows already dissolving into memory, meaningless words wrapped in spectacle. Now, the real show begins—the reception, the stage where the perfect couple plays their part for the world.

Even the guests are accessories. Selected for status, influence, and their ability to elevate the illusion.

Not a single thing about this wedding is real.

My gaze drifts to the newlyweds.

Dominic Forsythe, Hollywood’s golden prince, a man who has played so many roles, I wonder if he remembers which one is truly his. His smiles, effortless and charming, are perfectly attuned to the cameras that linger.

Melanie Arden, standing at his side, holds his hand like she’s holding a trophy. She does not look at him. Not really. Her gaze flickers over the guests, the press, the performance unfolding around her.

This is what Cassius Arden wanted. A daughter who could captivate,r one who could shine.

I take another sip of champagne. The taste is fine, but it’s human, forgettable.

This is not why I’m here.

These people know I don’t belong here. The way they glance at me. Uncertain. Drawn in without understanding why.

The women are the most obvious. Staring. Wanting.

One in particular.

She watches me like she already knows how this ends. Sex eyes. A silent offer. An invitation.

I don’t care who she is. Her name, her voice, none of it matters.

But her body?

The way she shifts, tilts her head just enough to expose the curve of her neck, the way her dress clings to every place that matters—that is something worth noticing.

And of course, that’s when I hear it. A voice I’d rather ignore. Sharp. Entitled. Cassius. It cuts through the space, low and furious, laced with that same arrogance he always carries. But this time? There’s something else beneath it. Something fraying.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice snaps through the air, barely muffled by the closed door. "Look at you—pathetic. You can't even handle yourself for one night?"

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