The city had always been a sprawling jewel—its neon lights reflecting off the glass towers like distant stars. But amidst it all, there was one presence that stood apart. A man whose very existence seemed impossible to define.
Adrian Blackthorn.
To the world, Adrian was a name that was whispered with reverence. An enigma wrapped in wealth, power, and danger. He was a man whose presence alone could send ripples through the elite circles of the world, yet there was no trace of him online. No Twitter account, no Instagram post, no public interviews. The press could not find him. The business world could not decipher his moves. Yet, somehow, he was everywhere.
Adrian Blackthorn was a name known to many, but a man known to few—if any.
He was the one everyone talked about, but no one really understood. The man who built an empire without ever stepping into the spotlight, without the world ever truly seeing him for what he was.
He was the man that businessmen envied but feared. Celebrities crushed on him from a distance, even though none of them had ever so much as met him. His business empire stretched across borders, but its core remained a mystery—an unseen force, like an ocean beneath the surface of the earth. No one had ever seen the full scope of his empire, and no one could ever figure out his exact worth.
Adrian Blackthorn was not someone who allowed the world to know him. His name was known, but not the man behind it. His face was a puzzle. Handsome, undeniably so, but terrifying in a way that left you breathless. His skin was pale, flawless—like marble, though colder, with an almost unnatural hue. His jet-black hair fell loosely around his face, a contrast against his sharp, angular features. He had the kind of looks that weren't simply admired; they were worshipped. The kind that made every celebrity dream of meeting him, but made every powerful businessman question how they could rise to meet his standards. But no matter how hard anyone tried to uncover his origins or his motives, they always came up empty. Even the best paparazzi couldn't breach the fortress that was Adrian Blackthorn.
And that was the way he liked it.
Adrian never appeared at public events, never attended galas, never even stepped foot in the places where people who had money and fame gathered. He didn't need to. His aura was so suffocating that even if he wasn't physically there, you could feel his presence. It wasn't something you could explain—it was beyond just wealth or beauty or style. It was something older, something ancient. A force that made the air around him thick and heavy, like you were standing in the presence of something far beyond human understanding. Something immortal.
He didn't wear regular clothes. He didn't need to. His attire—always impeccable—was a blend of the modern and the otherworldly. A black suit, perfectly tailored, but not just any suit. The fabric seemed to shift, almost imperceptibly, depending on the light, giving it an ethereal quality. It wasn't just a garment—it was a statement, a manifestation of power and darkness. His watch, made from materials no one could identify, seemed to absorb light, drawing all eyes to it without a single word spoken. His shoes—black, polished leather—looked like they had been made from the finest materials money could buy, though no one could say for sure.
In a crowd, he was the type of person you wouldn't dare approach. Not because of fear, but because of respect. Or was it awe? Maybe both.
His gaze, when he allowed anyone to meet his eyes, was like staring into an endless abyss. His eyes were dark—no, they were black—but not in a way that was familiar. There was a unique, almost supernatural gleam to them, like the depths of the ocean, but darker, more consuming. When he looked at you, it was like he was looking through you, reading your thoughts before you had even formed them.
Adrian Blackthorn was a myth in the flesh. A living contradiction. He was not just wealthy. He was not just powerful. He was something... different.
And yet, despite this terrifying allure, Adrian Blackthorn had chosen to live in near-total isolation. He didn't entertain guests. He didn't socialize. He didn't need to. His very presence, even if it was only felt from a distance, kept everyone in check. It kept people curious, haunted by the idea of him, but afraid to get too close.
The only contact with the outside world that could be traced back to him were the letters. Simple, elegant, and full of authority. The messages were always to the point—no extra words, no fluff. Every request, every transaction, was handled with cold precision. And that was how the world operated around Adrian. His rules, his terms, and everyone else was just part of the grand, unknowable design that he controlled.
What made him even more terrifying was his silence. Adrian didn't speak unless necessary. He didn't charm, smile, or attempt to belong. He was aloof, unreachable. His wealth was mythic. His lifestyle unknown. His existence? Untraceable.
Yet, every month, his company—whatever it was—handpicked a candidate for a mysterious role. High-paying. No listed duties. No name of the organization. Just a letter and a time.
And this time, that letter found its way into the hands of a girl who lived on the farthest edge of obscurity.
---
Lyra.
A name that never trended. A face not captured by glossy filters. A girl who carried sunshine in her voice and rain in her pocket. Raised by her grandparents in a town too small for ambition but too big for her dreams, Lyra had never thought of stepping into the world of the elite. Her world consisted of secondhand books, hand-me-down clothes, and dreams stitched quietly at night.
That morning had begun like any other. Simple. Grey clouds rolling. A cracked mirror. A cup of tea that had grown cold.
Yet something felt different.
She sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the cream-colored envelope again. No stamp. No return address. Just her name in perfect calligraphy.
Her grandparents hovered nearby, watching her brush her hair in silence.
"You sure this is real?" her grandmother finally asked, voice heavy with concern. "No," Lyra admitted, smiling nervously. "But… what if it is?"
She wore her best outfit. A plain white blouse, tucked neatly into a navy skirt that ended just past her knees. Clean shoes, freshly polished. Her curly hair was tied into a simple ponytail, with a faded blue ribbon. Modest. Appropriate. Outdated.
She looked at herself in the mirror again. A ripple of doubt passed through her. She didn't look like someone fit for a luxurious job. But she had to try. She had nothing to lose.
---
When Lyra arrived at the towering building written in the letter, her breath caught.
It wasn't just a building—it was a statement. All-black glass, no name, no logo, and guards who didn't smile. Inside, the air felt expensive. Fragrance lingered like secrets. And in the waiting room… beauty reigned.
Women in tight designer dresses. Hair professionally curled. Perfume that announced status. Laughter that reeked of practiced elegance.
Lyra sat quietly in the corner, clutching her small purse, knees pressed together. She felt like a misplaced note in a perfectly tuned orchestra.
"They probably invited everyone," she muttered under her breath.
A few of the other girls noticed her. One raised an eyebrow.
"She's here for the same job?" "Maybe she's the janitor." "Or someone's assistant's cousin."
Lyra swallowed. She wanted to disappear. But instead, she stared ahead, refusing to shrink.
Suddenly, the elevator doors opened.
And silence followed.
He stepped in.
Adrian Blackthorn.
No introduction. No assistant. No clipboard.
The air changed.
He walked past the rows of hopeful candidates without glancing at them. When his eyes met Lyra's for the briefest second, she froze. Her pulse skipped.
He wasn't just beautiful—he was unreal.
How was someone like this allowed to exist? Was he even alive?
Without saying a word, he turned and gestured. "Follow me."
Everyone stood up. But he raised a single hand—and pointed only at Lyra.
Her.
Mouth dry, legs trembling, Lyra stood.
---
The room she followed him into was vast and dimly lit. No décor. No furniture except for a single black chair. He leaned against the window, staring out into the horizon, hands in his pockets.
Minutes passed. He didn't speak.
Lyra coughed nervously. "Uhm… I… I'm Lyra."
He turned slowly.
His voice was deep. Cold. Smooth as winter silk. "I know who you are."
Lyra blinked. "You do?"
"I chose you."
That sentence made her knees weak.
"You… what? But—why me? I'm not like the others. I mean… I don't look—"
He stepped closer. His presence felt like ice brushing against her spine.
"You are not here because of your looks."
"Then… why?" she whispered.
Adrian didn't reply.
Instead, he placed a single sheet of paper on the table. A contract. Simple. Clean.
"Be my girlfriend for six months. Follow every rule. No questions. No emotions. In exchange, you will be paid enough to change your life."
Lyra stared at it, unable to speak.
Was this a joke?
Was she being pranked?
"What is this?" she asked, voice trembling.
"A proposal," he said.
"For what? You want… a fake relationship?"
He didn't nod. He didn't explain. He simply said, "You have one day to decide. The car will pick you up tomorrow."
Then he left the room.
---
Alone now, Lyra sank into the chair, her hands shaking.
What was this man? Why her? Was it a trap? Or… was this her fate?
Questions filled her like smoke. But one thing was clear: Adrian Blackthorn was not of this world. And she had just stepped into his.
.....