Page 65 of Wings of Shadow
I grip the arms of my chair, steadying myself against the sudden shock. Kaisner Drachenstein. The man who’s haunted my thoughts, my dreams. The one whose touch set my skin ablaze, whose kiss stole my breath.
Heat prickles in my nape, but I force my expression into one of polite curiosity. Conversation erupts—speculation, theories, whispers of intrigue. My colleagues are enthralled, swept up in the mystery of the enigmatic benefactor.
But I know better. Kaisner never does anything without purpose. And if he’s involved, it means my carefully reconstructed world is about to be upended once again.
I’m only half-listening, my mind consumed by memories. The way his eyes locked onto mine across the crowded dance floor, the crackling electricity between us, the heat of his hands on my skin. The taste of his lips.
“I still can’t believe he agreed,” Amélie gushes, snapping me back to the present. “Some of those pieces haven’t been seen in public for decades!”
A drawer slams shut. I flinch, pulse spiking. The sound ricochets through me like an echo of that night at Éclipse. Weeks have passed, yet the memories cling to me—sharp, unrelenting.
“We’ve been asking for ages, and his offices always refused. I wonder what changed,” Luc muses. Then, grinning, “And he’s donating a never-before-seen Kandinsky sketch to the Lumière Foundation. That alone will have donors scrambling to get in.”
Their voices rise in a chorus of praise and speculation, but I only catch fragments.
“A Freiherr, no less,” Sophie adds with reverence. “German nobility. That explains the old-world elegance and the vast collections.”
“I hear he’s single,” someone whispers. “Can you imagine capturing his heart?”
“Single or not, he’s a mystery,” Amèlie chimes in conspiratorially. “No one really knows much about him. It’s like he materialized out of thin air.”
“Well, I hear he’s gorgeous,” Camille giggles, fanning herself with a stack of notes. “Tall, dark, and dangerous.”
Heat flares at the back of my neck. Kaisner’s piercing gaze flashes through my mind, the ghost of his touch reigniting a spark I thought I’d extinguished. I shift in my seat, willing the memory away. But it lingers, a whisper against my skin.
“We should focus on the exhibition,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Not idle gossip.”
But even as the words leave my lips, they ring hollow. Because deep down, I know the truth. I’m just as fixated on Kaisner Drachenstein as they are. Perhaps even more.
“Of course, Miss Draken,” Amélie says, subdued. “We’re just excited. It’s not every day we work with someone of his caliber.”
I force a smile. “I understand. But let’s keep things professional. We have a lot to prepare.”
The conversation shifts back to logistics, but my thoughts remain tangled. Kaisner Drachenstein. After weeks of silence, he’s shattered my fragile detachment with one grand gesture.
When the meeting concludes, I retreat to my office. I exhale slowly, willing my pulse to steady. But the sense of unease lingers—an instinct whispering that something is off, that I’m missing a vital piece of the puzzle.
Drawn by impulse, I move toward the filing cabinet, my fingers deftly flipping through the folders until I find what I’m looking for—the contract for the Drachenstein exhibition, signed with a flourish by Kaisner himself.
I trace the bold slant of his signature, a slow sweep of my fingertip. “Who are you really, Kaisner Drachenstein?” I murmur.
Before I can second-guess myself, I settle into the plush leather chair behind my desk, my fingers flying over the keyboard. I pull up every scrap of information I can find—articles, press releases, financial reports. But the more I search, the more I realize: I’m only scratching the surface. There are layers to him, depths concealed beneath carefully curated façades.
My mind drifts back to that night at Éclipse, to the words Kaisner whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“When you’re ready to accept all of me—the light and the dark—then I will make you mine. Fully. Completely. Irrevocably.”
A shiver dances down my spine, anticipation curling in my stomach.
What does it mean to accept all of him? To embrace not only the polished exterior he presents to the world but also the shadows lurking beneath? Can I truly give myself over to a man I barely know, whose motives remain a mystery?
The questions swirl in my mind, a dizzying storm of doubt and desire. But even as I wrestle with uncertainty, I can’t deny the truth. The enigma that is Kaisner Drachenstein calls to me, an unsolved mystery I can’t resist unraveling.
With a sudden burst of determination, I reach for the phone. My fingers dial the number for our offices in Germany almost on sheer instinct.
As the phone rings, I settle into my chair, gaze drifting toward the large window overlooking the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The city moves below in elegant chaos, but my focus narrows.
On the opposite sidewalk, a figure lingers.
