Music drifted through the glittering hall, candlelight shimmering on mirrors, floors, gowns, powdered faces, and smiles that hid secrets. Movements were measured, laughs rehearsed, and glances carried the weight of a court built on desire, ambition, and deception.

Rachel stood in the centre of it all, though she knew at once that she was not Rachel.

Her gown was pale blue silk, fitted tightly through the bodice before falling in heavy skirts that whispered across the polished floor. Pearls rested at her throat, cool against her skin. Her hair had been pinned and curled beneath a delicate arrangement of ribbons, and when she moved through the room, men watched her as though she were something more dangerous than beautiful.

Versailles.

The name came to her with the certainty of memory, although she had never seen the palace outside photographs and history books.

A man took her gloved hand.

Vlad looked different only because the world around him did. His dark hair was tied back, and his black velvet coat was embroidered with silver thread. He bowed over her hand with the grace of a predator who had learned court manners well enough to mock them.

"Vous êtes distraite ce soir, Céline," he said.

You are distracted tonight, Celine.

Rachel should not have understood him. She had never spoken French beyond a few half-forgotten phrases from school, yet the meaning came to her without effort.

She looked up at him and smiled with another woman's mouth. "Et vous êtes trop attentif, monsieur."

His eyes warmed with amusement. They were no longer red, nor were they dangerous as she remembered them in the alley. There was hunger in him, yes, but it was held in check by charm, curiosity, and something that looked dangerously close to affection.

The music shifted, and he drew her into the dance. They moved together as if they had done it a hundred times before. His hand rested at her waist, firm but careful, and she knew the exact distance between propriety and scandal. Around them, courtiers drifted in circles of silk, perfume, and whispered judgement, but Vlad's attention remained on her alone.

"You hide in plain sight," he murmured in French. "I have never known anyone so determined to be seen and unseen at once."

"Perhaps you see too much."

"Perhaps you let me."

The words should have frightened her. Instead, warmth moved through her chest, golden and familiar. She knew him in this place. She knew the careful intelligence behind his smile, the danger beneath his restraint, and the way he watched the world as if he had survived too much of it to be impressed by its finery.

He leaned closer as the dance turned them away from the nearest listeners. "What are you, Céline?"

Her smile did not falter, but something inside her went still.

"What a strange question."

"Not strange. Necessary."

"You know what I am."

"I know what you allow me to see."

For a moment, the candlelight flickered. Shadows shifted behind him, responding to something in his nature. In answer, warmth bloomed beneath her skin, soft and radiant, but she drew it inward before it could show. She had learned to hide it. She had learned to hide everything.

Vlad's gaze sharpened, as if he had almost felt it.

"You are not like the others," he said.

"No," she replied softly. "I am not."

"Then tell me."

The music carried them beneath a chandelier bright enough to turn the room into a dream of fire and gold. His hand tightened at her waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to ask for honesty.

She wanted to tell him.

The longing struck with such force that it almost broke whatever memory held her together. She wanted to tell him what she was. She wanted to say Aphrodite. She wanted to say hunted. She wanted to warn him that loving her was dangerous, and that every life she touched eventually burned.

Instead, she lifted her chin and gave him the lie she had prepared.

"My father has recalled me."

Vlad's expression changed so slightly that most people would not have noticed, but she did. She knew him too well not to see the disappointment beneath his poise.

"For how long?"

"I do not know."

"Where?"

"I cannot say."

His smile returned, though it had lost its warmth. "Cannot, or will not?"

She looked past him, towards the tall windows where night pressed against the glass. Beyond Versailles, beyond France, beyond this brief and glittering illusion of safety, something waited for her. Something that would follow if she stayed too long.

"If I could remain, I would," she said.

Vlad studied her as though trying to decide whether to believe her. "Then let me come with you."

The answer rose in her chest too quickly, too painfully. She could not let him follow. Not because she did not want him, but because she did. If he followed her, he would learn the truth. If he learned the truth, he would become another weakness the darkness could use. She had survived by leaving before love became a chain. She had survived by becoming a memory people could not hold.

She touched his face, and for one careless heartbeat, light stirred beneath her fingertips.

Vlad's eyes widened.

She pulled away before he could understand.

"Adieu, Vlad," she whispered.

His hand caught hers before she could retreat. "Céline."

The name broke something in her. She looked back once and saw him standing amid the candlelight, beautiful, furious, and confused, watching her leave with the expression of a man who knew he had been lied to but not why.

Then the ballroom darkened. The music warped, the gold mirrors cracked into shadow, and Rachel woke to someone pounding on her front door.

For several seconds, she sat upright in bed, trapped between centuries. Her heart beat too fast, and the name still trembled on her lips.

Céline.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

"Rach?" Beth called from the hallway. "Open the door. I know you're in there."

Rachel threw off the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted as she stood, and she caught herself on the mattress while the present returned in pieces: her apartment, her tangled sheets, the black dress she was still wearing from the night before, and the sour taste of sleep and fear in her mouth.

The clock read 2 PM.

She had overslept again.

The revised pitch was due that night, and the thought should have sent her into immediate panic. Instead, she stood frozen beside the bed, hearing French in her mind as clearly as if someone had spoken it beside her.

Beth knocked again. "Rachel, I swear to God, if you don't open this door, I'm calling someone."

Rachel pushed herself towards the door, catching sight of herself in the hallway mirror as she passed. Her ponytail was half collapsed, her makeup was smudged beneath her eyes, and her skin looked pale enough to belong to someone who had been ill for days.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Beth stood on the other side, phone in hand, panic and annoyance fighting across her face. Before Rachel could speak, Beth stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her in a fierce hug. The familiar scent of orange perfume surrounded Rachel, grounding her in the present.

"Where have you been?" Beth demanded, pulling back to look her over. "Are you okay?"

Rachel blinked, still half caught in the dream. "Je vais bien."

"What?"

Rachel froze. The words had come out without thought. Smooth. Natural. French.

"I said I'm fine," Rachel said quickly, stepping back into the apartment. "I'm just tired."

Beth followed her inside and shut the door. "Since when do you speak French?"

"I don't."

"You literally just did."

"No, I didn't."

"Rach."

Rachel turned away, buying herself a moment as she walked towards the living room. Her thoughts scrambled for an explanation, but there was nothing to hold on to. She had studied French briefly in school, badly, and had forgotten most of it years ago. She should not have understood Vlad in the dream.

"I must have picked up a phrase somewhere," Rachel said, though even to herself the excuse sounded weak.

"I've been trying to reach you all day. I was about to call the police."

"A bit of an overreaction," Rachel said, lowering herself onto the couch. "And you talked to my mother."

"Yeah, she wished me a happy birthday. But seriously, you look awful. Did you go out without me last night?"

Rachel rubbed at her temple as memories from the previous evening returned in a rush. Vlad. Darius. The bite at her throat. Purple light spreading over his skin. The word Aphrodite. The sudden warmth that had swallowed the club before she woke in her own bed.

"How did I get home?" she murmured.

Beth sat beside her. "That's what I'm asking you."

Rachel looked down and realised she was still wearing yesterday's black dress. Her throat prickled where Darius had bitten her, and she lifted her hand to cover the spot before Beth could notice.

"I wasn't feeling well," Rachel said. "I must have crashed when I got in."

Beth folded her arms. "You disappeared all day, ignored my calls, apparently started speaking French, and now you're telling me you just had a nap?"

"It was a very deep nap."

"Rachel."

The warning in Beth's voice made Rachel sigh. She hated lying to her, but the truth was impossible. Beth would either laugh, panic, or worse, try to insert herself into danger.

"Nothing happened," Rachel said. "I had an appointment, went out for a bit, and didn't look at my phone."

Beth did not look convinced, but she softened enough to hug her again. Despite everything, the closeness calmed Rachel. Beth was warm, human, and familiar. Then Rachel saw it: a faint purple glow moving from Beth's arm to hers where their skin touched.

Rachel stiffened.

The glow vanished.

Beth pulled back. "What?"

"Nothing."

But it was not nothing. The hug had eased the emptiness inside her, not completely, but enough for Rachel to notice. Darius had said Aphrodites drew strength from love and desire. He had said she needed to feed.

Rachel swallowed against a wave of unease.

"So," she said, desperate to move the conversation away from herself, "did you find Mr Mysterious?"

Beth groaned and leaned back against the couch. "No. But last night I ran into that guy who was watching you on Friday. The intense one from the VIP lounge. Vlad, I think."

Rachel straightened. "What?"

Beth waved a hand. "Relax. Tiffany and I were bar hopping, and that place was the only one letting people in after midnight."

"Beth, after what I told you?"

"You told me you saw a vampire."

Rachel stared at her.

Beth winced. "Sorry, but come on. You were exhausted, and that place is weird enough to make anyone dramatic."

Rachel's eyes dropped immediately to Beth's neck. Relief loosened something in her chest when she saw no marks.

Beth noticed. "Are you checking me for bite marks?"

"No."

"You absolutely are."

Rachel stood and crossed to the kitchen, needing distance. "Did he say anything to you?"

"He asked about you."

Rachel turned back too quickly. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing important. Just that you were my friend and that you'd probably gone home because you're allergic to fun."

"Beth."

"What? He was polite."

"Vlad is not polite. Vlad is dangerous."

Beth gave her a sceptical look. "Dangerous in a hot way or dangerous in an actual way?"

"Actual."

"Well, you'll never hook up with anyone if you treat every handsome man like a criminal."

"You should focus on Mr Mysterious. The last thing you need is to get involved with a man who probably has more than one mistress."

Beth's expression turned dreamy. "But imagine him without a shirt."

"No. Keep your thoughts inside your head."

The sudden buzz of Rachel's phone saved her from saying more. She picked it up from the coffee table and saw the screen flooded with missed calls, texts, and emails. Lindon. The gallery contact. Beth. Her mother. Lindon again.

The gallery contact.

Rachel's stomach dropped.

Beth followed her gaze. "Guess you're all set for the exhibition. I'm surprised you're not a complete bundle of nerves."

"Oh no." Rachel covered her mouth. "How did I forget?"

Beth's eyes widened. "Rach."

"The exhibition. It's today." Panic cut through the last of her grogginess. "Beth, this is huge, and I completely lost track of everything."

"Good thing I came over." Beth stood and clapped her hands once, taking charge as though this were a wardrobe emergency rather than the collapse of Rachel's life. "Shower. Clothes. Makeup. I'll deal with your phone."

Rachel stared at her.

"Move," Beth said.

Rachel moved.

The clarity that followed was harsh and immediate. In her desperate need for answers, she had lost an entire day. She had forgotten the exhibition she had worked towards for months. Her first real chance to show her art to people who might care, and she had nearly slept through it because the supernatural world had crashed into her life and left her too drained to stand.

By the time Rachel reached the old wharf that evening, she felt as though she were walking into someone else's life.

The exhibition space overlooked the harbour, its timber floors polished smooth beneath the warm glow of hanging lights. High ceilings opened above exposed beams, and a soft sea breeze slipped through the slatted windows, carrying the scent of salt and wine through the room. It was beautiful in the way Rachel had imagined when she first applied to be included, but now the beauty only sharpened her nerves.

The event was open only to people who had pre-purchased tickets, which gave it an intimate but intimidating atmosphere. The attendees moved with the confidence of people who belonged in the art world. Women wore flowing dresses and understated jewellery, men spoke in low voices over glasses of wine, and everyone seemed to know how long to stand before a painting before moving on.

Rachel was one of four artists presenting, and the only newcomer. Her ten selected pieces occupied one side of the room, including four larger canvases she had almost not dared to submit. For weeks, she had sifted through her work, choosing landscapes that shared a loose theme of travel. At the time, it had seemed like a practical decision. Now, after the dreams and Vlad's questions, the paintings felt less like imagined places and more like evidence she had accidentally displayed in public.

She stood near Beth, clutching the same glass of sparkling wine for so long that the bubbles had begun to fade. Beth, on the other hand, was fully embracing the free wine and canapes.

"I thought there would be more single men," Beth said, eyeing the room with disappointment. "I'd have better luck at the grocery store."

"It's an art exhibition, not a nightclub."

"I was promised culture and wealthy bachelors."

"No one promised you that."

"I implied it to myself." Beth took another sip of wine, then nudged Rachel with her elbow. "Sorry. This is your special day. Your art is getting a lot of attention."

Rachel looked towards a small group gathered near one of her larger paintings. They were speaking quietly and pointing at details in the brushwork, but their expressions gave nothing away.

"I don't know if that's good or bad. Everyone keeps whispering."

"That's what art people do."

"It makes me feel like I'm being judged by a secret council."

"Maybe go talk to them."

Rachel gave her a horrified look. "Absolutely not."

"Wasn't the point of this to get your name out there?"

"Yes, not to interrupt strangers and ask them whether my work emotionally moved them."

Beth laughed, then lifted her empty glass. "I'm going to the bathroom. Can you get me another?"

"You have had enough."

"That was not the question."

Beth wandered towards the hallway before Rachel could argue.

Rachel turned back to her paintings and tried to breathe through the nerves tightening in her chest. The landscapes looked different tonight. The Italian mountain. The river that might have been Egypt. The green hills with riders beneath a storming sky. She had always called them dreamscapes because that sounded artistic and harmless. Now she wondered if harmless had been the lie.

A familiar voice spoke behind her, close enough that his breath brushed her neck.

"You doubt yourself, yet your art has more confidence than you do."

Rachel spun around so quickly she nearly spilled her drink. Vlad stood behind her, infuriatingly at ease in black jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a brown leather jacket that made him blend into the room better than he had any right to. He was not dressed like the creature from the alley. He was dressed like a man who belonged at an art exhibition, admiring paintings and making women look twice.

Her pulse tripped as the dream returned in a flash of candlelight, music, a gloved hand in his, and his voice calling her Céline.

Rachel stepped back. "What are you doing here?"

"Research."

"This is my exhibition."

"I know."

"Then leave."

Vlad glanced past her towards the paintings. "You did not seriously think you could entangle our lives and I would simply wait for you to work out what you are."

Her eyes darted around the room. No one seemed to have noticed him yet. The exhibition was her dream, fragile and public and painfully human, and Vlad had the power to shatter it with a flash of fang or shadow.

"Please," she said, keeping her voice low. "Do not cause a scene."

"I have no intention of causing trouble unless you do."

"That is not reassuring."

"It was not intended to be."

His attention moved to one of her paintings, and his expression shifted. The mockery faded, replaced by something older and more difficult to read.

"What inspired this one?"

Rachel followed his gaze. "A dream."

"All of them?"

"All the landscapes, yes."

He stepped closer to the painting, studying the brushwork with unsettling focus. "Your dreams are very detailed."

"So I've been told."

"This is Egypt."

Rachel frowned. "I was thinking somewhere tropical, maybe South America."

"No." Vlad's voice was quiet now. "This is the Nile. The shoreline huts are wrong for the modern world, but not for the old one, and that temple in the distance..." He leaned in slightly. "I have seen it."

Rachel's skin prickled. "You cannot know that."

"I can."

"Because you're old?"

His mouth curved. "Because I have travelled."

"That is not the same thing."

"For me, it often is."

Rachel looked at the painting again. The river, the heat, the small figures near the bank, the temple half hidden by palms. She had painted it after waking from a dream so vivid that for days she had felt sand beneath her feet whenever she closed her eyes.

"It isn't real," she said, though she no longer believed herself.

Vlad turned to another canvas, the one with the snow-dusted mountain and the city below. "And this?"

"I told you, I haven't been to these places."

"This one is real as well."

Rachel moved beside him despite herself. "It's just a mountain."

"Etna."

She studied the painting. "You see a volcano where I see a mountain. There's no lava and no ash cloud. Just snow."

His laughter softened his face in a way that made the dream press uncomfortably close. "Do not let the snow fool you. That is very much Etna. You painted it as if you were standing on a balcony overlooking Catania."

Rachel's stomach tightened.

Versailles. Celine. French spoken in a dream and on waking. Now Etna.

"How would I know that?" she asked quietly.

"That is what I came to find out."

He looked at her then, and for once the arrogance in his expression was tempered by something like curiosity. It was not kindness, but it was not cruelty either.

"Your work is captivating," he said. "I would buy every piece under one condition."

Rachel already knew what he would say, but the warmth that rose in her cheeks betrayed her anyway. Praise from Vlad should not have meant anything.

"What condition?"

He moved closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Break the bond."

The fragile warmth vanished.

"I've told you I don't know how."

"You are the Aphrodite. Bonds, desire, devotion and manipulation are supposed to be your domain."

"I was a marketing consultant two days ago."

"And now?"

"Now I'm a marketing consultant having a breakdown at an art exhibition."

His mouth twitched.

Rachel looked away before that almost smile could soften her. "Why is Italy dangerous for the Aphrodite?"

Vlad's attention returned to the painting of Etna. "Legend claims the mountain is a threshold, a place where fire, death and the underworld press close to the mortal world. Some say the Abaddon lost his physical form there."

Rachel remembered the dream of burning walls, screams, and darkness rising through a city. She had not known where it was then. Now the painted mountain seemed to watch her from the canvas.

"What happened to Aphrodite?"

Vlad shrugged, but his gaze remained on the painting. "The stories disagree. They usually do. Some say she escaped. Some say she died. Some say the creature who defeated the Abaddon then hunted her."

"Why would he hunt her?"

"Perhaps he blamed her. Perhaps he loved her. Perhaps both. Creatures are rarely simple."

Rachel thought of the ballroom, Vlad's hand at her waist, and his voice speaking another woman's name. She looked at him sharply.

"Have we met before?"

Vlad's expression stilled, and for a moment the noise of the exhibition seemed to dim around them.

"No," he said.

The answer came too quickly.

Rachel's pulse quickened. "Are you sure?"

"I would remember you."

The words should have ended the question, but they unsettled her more than a denial. His gaze moved over her face with sudden intensity, as though he were searching for something he could not place.

Rachel nearly asked him if he knew the name Celine, but stopped herself. She did not know why, only that the name felt too intimate to hand over in a crowded room. If the dream was nothing, she would sound ridiculous. If it was something, she was not ready for Vlad to know he had appeared in it.

Beth's laughter pulled Rachel's attention across the room. Her friend had returned from the bathroom and was speaking animatedly with a man in his late forties, champagne in hand.

Fear cut cleanly through Rachel's confusion.

"Please," she said, turning back to Vlad. "No one here should get hurt because of this. Not Beth. Not anyone."

Vlad followed her gaze, and his expression darkened. "This bond is changing me. My hunger is stronger, and my restraint is becoming less reliable. If it is not severed soon, I cannot promise what happens."

Rachel's throat tightened. "I need help. I don't know what I'm meant to do."

For once, Vlad did not mock her. He looked at her for a long moment, then back at the painting of Etna.

"I will send Darius to you," he said. "He has more patience for frightened young creatures."

"I am not frightened."

His eyes met hers, faintly red beneath the gallery lights. "Yes, you are."

Rachel hated that he was right.

Vlad stepped away from the painting, his gaze lingering briefly on the others, as if every canvas had become another question. Then he looked back at her.

"If your dreams are memories, Rachel, then someone went to great effort to bury them."

"And if they are not?"

"Then you have a remarkable imagination."

He turned to leave, but paused close enough that his voice brushed over her skin.

"Either way, do not ignore them."

Rachel watched him move through the exhibition with the ease of someone who knew exactly how dangerous he was and trusted everyone else not to notice. By the time Beth returned to her side, Vlad had disappeared into the crowd near the exit.

Beth handed Rachel a fresh glass of sparkling wine. "Was that him?"

Rachel kept her eyes on the door. "Yes."

Beth looked impressed. "Okay. I understand the vampire thing now."

Rachel almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat. The room felt too bright, too ordinary, and too full of people admiring paintings that might not have come from her imagination at all.

Her gaze drifted back to Etna, then to the river, then to the green hills beneath the storming sky. For the first time, Rachel wondered whether she had ever painted a dream in her life, or whether every canvas was a place she had once been trying desperately to remember.