Chapter 2

After digesting most of it, I yawned, my bones snapping back into human form with a series of pops.

The concrete floor was freezing. I picked through the pile of rags for a jacket that wasn't blood-soaked, slipping it on before scooping up a hundred-dollar bill from the ground and stuffing it in my pocket—the edge was stained with blood, but it'd still work for a cab.

Then I stepped over the scattered bills littering the floor and walked out of the abandoned factory.

Lorenzo wouldn't be coming back. I was absolutely certain of that.

The cold wind outside hit me, and my brain—previously numbed by wagyu beef and unlimited credit cards—finally kicked back into gear.

Thinking it over, nothing about today was really all that sudden. The red flags about Camilla had been there all along.

A few weeks back, Lorenzo brought me to a private gambling den for the first time.

The moment I stepped into the private room, I knew something was off.

Through the cigar smoke, those men and women looked at me like I was a cheap imitation, exchanging theatrical whispers without bothering to hide it.

"Guess Lorenzo still can't forget her."

"The face does look like the missing Camilla, but the vibe's way off."

"Wanna bet? The second Camilla comes back, this knockoff's getting kicked to the curb."

I wasn't interested in the tangled web of human social games, but I could smell the nauseating malice in the air with perfect accuracy.

Lorenzo's expression darkened instantly. He slammed his whiskey glass down on the table, his gaze cutting across the room like a blade.

"That's enough. I didn't bring Sapphira here for your entertainment. One more word, and you're out."

The room went dead silent before stiffly pivoting to stock market talk. But for the rest of the night, those judgmental stares stuck to my back like needles.

Later, when I went to the restroom to adjust my dress, a woman holding a champagne flute deliberately blocked the door.

She looked me up and down like I was a stray dog, her red lips spitting out words as sharp as broken glass. "Listen. You're just a warm body Lorenzo's using to fill the void."

"He could buy a Fifth Avenue penthouse for a stray dog if he felt like it. But don't try to squeeze into a world that isn't yours. Once Camilla's back, you won't even make the cut as a backup."

That was the first time I'd heard the name Camilla.

I blinked, looking at her with genuine confusion. "So... who's Camilla?"

The woman looked like she'd heard the funniest joke of her life, her voice nearly cracking with disbelief. "You don't even know who Camilla is?!"

Through her gleefully hostile briefing, I finally pieced it together.

Camilla Hartley was Lorenzo's childhood sweetheart, the one he'd loved and lost, the trump card who'd disappeared after a family conflict and never looked back.

Until he found me—a close-enough replacement—his life had been stagnant as stale water.

From that day on, everything slowly started to rot.

One night, I went downstairs looking for a snack and passed Lorenzo's study.

The door was half-open. He stood with his back to me, gripping his phone like a lifeline. His voice was low but laced with rare desperation.

"Still nothing? Tell me—when the hell is Camilla coming back?"

That desperate edge was nothing like the cold ruthlessness he used with family traitors.

Over the next few weeks, he started canceling plans. The Michelin dinners we'd scheduled, the jewelry he'd promised to bid on for me—all of it brushed aside with "business troubles."

But I could smell the truth—my dragon nose never lied. Every time he rushed out the door, his expensive suits reeked of anxious cold sweat.

He wasn't handling business. He was frantically searching for his real "priceless treasure."

A gust of wind cut through the empty two-a.m. street, yanking me out of the flashback.

Just a few hours ago, when the kidnappers made him choose, the truth had been crystal clear.

He'd held the unconscious Camilla like she was made of glass, his eyes tender and protective; when he turned to look at me, all that remained was cold cost-benefit analysis.

He didn't even spare a second to ask my opinion. He just left me there like it was the most natural thing in the world. And before leaving, he tried to dress it up with "I know you've always been strong."

In his eyes, I was probably just a hardy pet—something disposable that could fend for itself.

Honestly, I didn't feel the kind of soul-crushing heartbreak you'd see in human soap operas.

More than my heart, what hurt was my stomach—those kidnappers I'd swallowed whole, guns and all, were hands down the worst "breakup meal" I'd ever had.

One of them had been wearing cheap cologne that was still burning in the back of my throat.

On the bright side, by swallowing the kidnappers, I'd technically settled all of Lorenzo's security bills for him.

I'd swiped his card before. Now I'd cleaned up his mess. We were even.

Once I thought of it that way, I tightened the jacket around me, and my steps felt noticeably lighter.

From this moment on, I was a free, single dragon again—no more reading faces or pretending to care.

What kind of "sponsor" should I find next?

I wondered if those old-money Wall Street families would be interested in investing in a dragon who could physically devour their business rivals.

I wasn't asking for much. Net worth over a hundred million, and smart enough to shut up when the crunching sounds started.

Just as I was happily planning my next long-term meal ticket, I reached an overpass.

The next second, my freshly stuffed stomach cramped violently.

The temperature around me plummeted. There was no wind, but I smelled a sharp, acrid scent of ozone—the telltale signature of high-intensity magic combustion.

Every nerve in my body screamed danger.

Crack.

A bolt of lightning exploded in the dim underpass.

Heavy, authoritative boot steps echoed as a tall man emerged from the darkness. In his left hand, he held a brass compass with a wildly spinning needle. In his right, a longsword covered in runes.

The lightning illuminated his cold gray eyes. That gaze, sharp with lethal intent, locked onto me.

The scales beneath my skin bristled instantly.

A demon hunter!

What the hell? How does a fully armed demon hunter just appear on a random street at this hour?! Didn't my sister say these guys were all lawyers in suits now?!

My calf muscles tensed. I instinctively stepped back, ready to smash through the stone bridge and bolt.

But I didn't even see him move.

A flash of silver—and the blade was already pressed against my carotid artery.

Faint electric arcs dancing along the edge instantly singed a strand of my hair. The deadly burn locked my body in place.

One more half-inch forward, and my head would roll.

Perfect. Just what every newly single dragon needs.

The man's gaze swept over the blood at the corner of my mouth before locking onto the golden scales that had instinctively surfaced along my neck.

His grip on the sword tightened sharply. A flicker of shock crossed his icy gray eyes as his voice cut through the air like frozen shards:

"You're... the dragon who swallowed them whole?"

The shock in his icy gray eyes lasted barely half a second before freezing into palpable lethal intent.