CHAPTER 21: ENTER THE FIFTH LEAD

(Evelina’s POV — Café Down the Office, Moments After)

Silence settled between us.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just... revealing. Kael Valtore didn’t even realize how naked the truth sounded coming from his own mouth.

He wasn’t here because he cared. He was here because he wanted a weapon.

Me.

I inhaled slowly, letting the icy realization sink beneath my skin like frost. Kael watched me closely, expecting—what? Gratitude? Tears? A desperate nod?

His voice cut the air again, low but firm. "So. What will you do?"

I lifted my eyes.

"What do you think I will do?" I asked softly.

His brows lifted slightly, as if surprised I asked. "You’ll help, of course. You’ve always valued our engagement. And now, I’m willing to restore it."

Restore it.

Like offering me a patched-up toy. Like giving a bone to a dog.

My lips curved.

Not a smile.

A warning.

"I see," I murmured. "So... you ended the engagement because you wanted a perfect image. A perfect wife. A perfect match."

Kael didn’t deny it.

"And now," I continued, "you want to put the engagement back on... because Vinter is targeting your market share."

A faint flicker of irritation crossed his face—brief, sharp.

"Don’t twist my words," he said, voice tightening. "I’m acting in your best interest as well."

"Really?" I leaned forward. "How?"

His jaw clenched.

"I’m trying to protect you," he said. "Theo Vinter is dangerous. Hartgrave cooperating with him will pull you into a dirty, risky world. If you convince Chairman Hartgrave to cancel the deal, I can ensure—"

"Ensure what?" I cut in sharply. "That your market doesn’t dip?"

His eyes hardened. "You’re misunderstanding—"

"No," I said quietly. "For the first time, I’m understanding perfectly, Mr. Kael Valtore."

He froze. The way a predator freezes when the prey suddenly bares its teeth.

My fingers tapped lightly on the armrest—slow, rhythmic, and taunting. Because that’s when it hit me: He is not only manipulative. He is also stupid. Remarkably stupid.

Reginald Hartgrave would never—ever—tear apart a major corporate alliance. Not for money.Not for politics. Not even for his "dearest daughters"—which I wasn’t.

He wouldn’t budge even if I knelt on broken glass in front of him.

But Kael... Does he not know that? Or...he thinks I am foolish enough to beg for him.

Anyway...I would play with his ego the way fate once played with Evelina’s life.

"I don’t know why you chose to talk to me," I said, tilting my head with a calm smile. "But let me remind you, Mr. Valtore... the world does not revolve around you."

His eyes narrowed.

"And I," I continued, voice soft but lethal, "do not revolve around you either."

I let that sink in.

"You must’ve mistaken me for that girl—the one who clung to a broken engagement like it was her entire oxygen supply."

His throat tightened.

"You thought my world would collapse without you." I leaned closer, lowering my voice into a whisper edged with ice. "But let me tell you something important, Kael... I am not yours. Not anymore. Not even a little."

The café went silent around us. Even the barista froze mid-pour, sensing the tension.

Kael stared at me, expression unreadable—then slowly twisted into something darker.

"You’re speaking emotionally," he said, tone flat and patronizing. "I understand you’re hurt—"

"Stop."

My voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Kael shut his mouth instantly—more out of shock than obedience.

"Do not," I said calmly, "confuse your ego with my emotions."

His jaw clenched.

My lips curved into a blade-thin smile. "You didn’t come here because you care about me. You came because you are afraid."

A flicker—fear or fury—passed behind his eyes.

"You’re scared," I whispered. "Of Vinter. Of the empire he and my family might build. Of losing your influence. Of losing your prestige. Of losing control."

He still said nothing. He was actually hearing me.

"Let me be perfectly clear," I said, smoothing my blazer. "I will not sabotage my family. I will not ruin Hartgrave’s alliance. But..."

I let the word hang. His expression cracked—and he smirked.

"I knew it," he said softly. "You still care—"

My smirk widened, sharp enough to cut him. I tilted my head, sweet yet venomous.

"If," I said slowly, savoring every syllable, "you kneel and beg me properly..."

His eyes went wide.

"...I might consider asking Father to cancel the deal with Vinter. How about that, Mr. Valtore?"

Silence.

Then—

SLAM.

He shot up from his chair so violently the table rattled. "HOW—DARE—YOU!"

Heads snapped toward us. Employees stared. The entire café went dead quiet. And then—

PING!

A bright red system window slammed into my vision.

[⚠ WARNING: Provoking Main Character may lead to a Death Route.][⚠ WARNING: THREAT LEVEL HIGH.][⚠ SYSTEM RECOMMENDS: RETREAT IMMEDIATELY.]

My heart jerked.

NOT TODAY.

I pushed back my chair, rising smoothly.

"Well," I said lightly, brushing past him, "whatever this conversation was—it’s over."

His hand twitched toward me, rage twisting his features.

"You—Evelina—!"

"See you... less," I said over my shoulder with a polite smile.

Then I walked. Not fast enough to seem scared. But fast enough to avoid triggering the Death Route hovering over me like a guillotine.

As I turned the corner and slipped into the hall, exhaling the breath I’d been holding— I smirked.

Because today, Evelina Hartgrave bit back.

And Kael Valtore?

For the first time... He didn’t know how to handle it.

***

(Next Day, Tactical Training Center—Evening)

The moment I stepped inside the facility, the smell of gunpowder and metal hit me like a slap.

Concrete walls. Steel doors. Dim lighting. Echoes of bullets cracking in distant ranges. A place built for survival, not comfort.

I pulled my coat tighter.

I shouldn’t be here. But this world wasn’t the one I was born in. This was a game where people could die for being on the wrong route.

And I had no intention of being one of them.

"I can’t believe this..." I exhaled to myself. "Seven days to learn how to shoot. Seven days to not die. Great. Just great."

Footsteps echoed behind me.

I turned.

A man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in tactical black—walked in. His presence alone shifted the air. Sharp eyes, military posture, and a jaw cut from stone.

Definitely not a beginner instructor. Definitely someone who could break necks with fingers.

He stopped three feet from me. "Good evening, Miss Evelina Hartgrave."

His voice was deep, stern, and far too calm.

"Good evening."

He didn’t smile. He studied me—top to bottom—like I was a misassembled weapon he needed to figure out.

Then, slowly, he crossed his arms.

"So," he said, "you’re the client who requested intensive firearms training in just seven days."

I nodded. "Correct."

His eyebrow lifted—barely. "Most people who ask for that are either preparing for war... or running from something. What about you, Miss?"

I held his gaze.

"Maybe both," I said.

Silence. His eyes sharpened. "You have no prior training?"

"None."

He clicked his tongue once. "...Then this is going to hurt."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He stepped closer, voice dropping.

"Learning how to shoot under pressure isn’t the hard part. Surviving your first real threat is. And the way you’re standing..." He circled me once—silent, assessing. "You’re tense. Off balance. Your breathing is wrong. Your grip strength is insufficient. And your reaction speed..." he tapped his watch, "we’ll find out soon enough."

I glared. "Is this part of the welcome ceremony?"

"No," he said. "This is the reality check."

I blinked. "...I see."

He didn’t soften.

"Good. Then you understand what’s at stake." A pause. "You’re going to need the best trainer we have."

"Alright."

I walked behind him as he led me past reinforced doors, dim shooting ranges, and trainees who looked like seasoned soldiers rather than civilians.

We stopped in a private training chamber—the lights were colder here, the air heavier. Then he called out:

"Rowan."

My heart froze, Instantly.

That name—That cursedly familiar name—

NO.No, no, no, absolutely NOT—

Footsteps echoed. Slow. Controlled. Sharp. A tall man emerged from the shadows. Blonde hair. Steel-grey eyes. Expression blank as ice.

Rowan Arcturus.

The fifth male lead. The most dangerous one for evelina and Sera’s personal bodyguard.

My trainer?

"This," he said, gesturing between us, "is Rowan Arcturus. Your personal trainer."

Rowan’s eyes met mine—cold, unreadable, and sharp enough to cut through bone. In that second, a faint blue shimmer hovered above his head.

[Rowan Arcturus—0%]

I can’t believe I met Sera’s personal bodyguard before her.