Chapter 1 — Prologue: Stillness Before

The penthouse sprawled like a shadowed kingdom, perched above the restless city. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast an icy blue sheen across the polished obsidian floors, the only light in a space that swallowed sound whole. Far below, the world churned—cars snaking through streets, horns blaring, lives colliding in a mess of want and hurry. Up here, though, silence clamped down, heavy as a vault door.

Raphaël Von Blake stood in the heart of his private study, a fortress within a fortress. His tailored black suit clung to him like a second skin, sharp lines accentuating the rigid set of his shoulders. On the desk before him lay the mask from the last Dominion gathering—lacquered, sleek, a faceless shell of control. Its empty eye sockets stared back, daring him to feel something. He didn’t. Not a flicker. In his right hand, a glass of dark whiskey tilted, the liquid catching the cold light as he swirled it with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His face remained a mask of its own, carved from stone, giving nothing away.

He stepped closer to the desk, the faint clink of ice against glass breaking the hush. His gaze stayed locked on the mask, as if it might whisper secrets of the night it had witnessed. Or the nights before that. The air in the room felt charged, thick with the weight of unspoken rules and buried hungers.

“You’re still here,” he murmured, voice low, almost to himself. The words weren’t for the mask, not really. They hung in the stillness, sharp as a blade’s edge, slicing through the quiet. His fingers tightened around the glass, just enough for the faintest creak of strain to echo.

Outside, the city pulsed on, oblivious to the man standing above it all. A king in his tower, untouchable, unreadable. But something in the way his jaw ticked, the way his eyes lingered on that lacquered face, hinted at a crack beneath the surface. Not a fracture, not yet—just the barest hint of pressure building.

He raised the glass to his lips, the whiskey burning a slow path down his throat. Then, with a measured breath, he set it down beside the mask, the two objects aligned like pieces on a chessboard. Waiting for the next move.

The silence in the penthouse shattered with the soft buzz of an incoming call. Raphaël’s gaze flicked to the sleek black phone on the edge of the desk, its screen glowing with a name: *Cassandra*. His lips pressed into a thin line, a ripple of irritation crossing his otherwise unreadable face. He let it hum for a beat longer, as if deciding whether the intrusion deserved his attention. Then, with a sharp swipe, he answered, pressing the device to his ear.

“Speak,” he commanded, voice a low growl, each syllable clipped and cold.

On the other end, Cassandra’s tone came through like velvet over steel, smooth but with an edge that could cut. “You’re brooding again, aren’t you? I can hear it in the way you breathe. Stop staring at that damn mask and listen. We’ve got a problem.”

His brow arched, though she couldn’t see it. He turned away from the desk, pacing toward the window, the city’s restless sprawl stretching out beneath him like a map of chaos. “I don’t brood. And I don’t have time for vague warnings. Spit it out.”

A huff of amusement crackled through the line, but it vanished quick. “Fine. The last gathering—someone talked. Word’s out about the inner circle’s next move. Not specifics, not yet, but enough to draw eyes. Unwanted ones. You know what that means.”

Raphaël’s grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening. His reflection stared back at him from the glass, a ghost of sharp angles and hollowed eyes. “It means someone’s tongue needs cutting. Who?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be calling. I’d be handling it.” Cassandra’s voice dipped, a thread of frustration weaving through. “But I’ve got ears on the ground. Give me twelve hours. I’ll have a name. Until then, keep that mask locked up. And don’t do anything reckless.”

He let out a short, humorless bark of a laugh, the sound scraping against the stillness of the room. “Reckless isn’t my style. You know that.”

“Do I?” she shot back, her words a jab. “Just stay put, Raphaël. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead before he could respond. He lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen for a long moment, the city’s lights flickering beyond like a thousand unanswered questions.

Raphaël slid the phone into his pocket, the weight of Cassandra’s warning lingering like a bitter aftertaste. He turned back to the desk, his gaze settling on the obsidian mask resting there, its surface catching the dim light in fractured slivers. It wasn’t just a disguise; it was a key to *The Dominion*, the clandestine club where the world’s most untouchable men shed their public faces for something primal. Behind those locked doors, hidden in the underbelly of the city, power wasn’t just wielded—it was devoured.

*The Dominion* thrived on secrecy, a fortress of wealth and influence where no law could reach. Its purpose was raw, unapologetic: a playground for the darkest, most lustful desires, where consequences dissolved under the weight of money and menace. Raphaël had walked its shadowed halls for years, his mask a shield for the indulgences he claimed without remorse. Sex, control, forbidden hungers—those were the currency, traded in whispers and moans behind polished veneer.

Every few months, during the infamous *Crimson Nights*, the club transformed into something even more feral. A new selection of women arrived, handpicked or lured under false pretenses, molded to serve every twisted whim. Some came willingly, chasing promises of wealth or thrill; others stumbled in blind, unaware of the cage closing around them. The rules were ironclad: indulge without restraint, obey without question, and never speak of what transpired. Identities stayed buried beneath masks, names forbidden in those hallowed, depraved spaces.

But beneath the erotic rituals and the clink of crystal glasses, something uglier festered. Power games twisted into silent wars, secrets piled like kindling, and whispers of rebellion stirred among the shadows. Raphaël had felt the undercurrent for weeks now, a tension coiling tighter with every gathering. Cassandra’s call only confirmed it—someone had cracked the silence, and the ripple could drown them all.

He traced a finger along the mask’s edge, the cool surface grounding him. *The Dominion* was his domain as much as anyone’s, but even he knew control was an illusion when betrayal lurked. His jaw tightened as he lifted the mask, turning it over in his hands, the weight of the coming storm pressing against his chest.