Rising above time and the universe, a tale of chosen souls, united by fate.

Enveloped in a bed fit for an emperor, John Wingliss found himself in the eye of the tempest, the heart of an exotic whirlwind. Beside him, two women graced the extravagant setting, their bronzed skin recounting tales of distant shores kissed by a relentless sun, their forms enhancing the opulence like rare gems embedded in a crown of gold.

The sheets that cocooned them were of a champagne hue, a quiet yet fitting tribute to the man who savored life with the refined taste of a connoisseur. The room itself was bathed in the gentle glow of lamplight, casting an ethereal light on the tableau, creating a surreal halo that underscored the allure of the enigmatic Mr. Wingliss.

The air hung heavy with anticipation, the silence echoing tales of love, longing, and a hint of danger, their secrets concealed within the shadowy corners of the room. All the while, Wingliss remained the centerpiece, the anchor in a sea of escalating desire.

Their fingers glided along the landscape of his chiseled torso, tracing the sculpted ridges of his muscles with a familiarity that bespoke more than just fleeting fascination. To them, he was not just a man; he was a symbol, a testament to the raw allure of strength intertwined with vulnerability.

What they were blissfully unaware of, as they surrendered themselves to the intoxication of the night, was that his mind was far away, lost in a memory that twinkled like a star in the canvas of his experiences. His thoughts were held captive by an encounter, an encounter that was as real as a dream and as elusive as a mirage, on the rooftop of the United Nations building.

And while their lips breathed his name in moans of pleasure, his mind echoed with a different name, a name that held a resonance deep within him, a name that was as intoxicating as the finest wine and as entrancing as the most beautiful melody: 

Jessica Dark.

His soul yearned for her, her memory imprinted in his heart like a silhouette against the sunset, a silhouette that was as enigmatic as the moon on a dark night. For him, she was not just a woman, but a puzzle, a challenge, a mystery that tantalizingly eluded him, always a breath away.

His heart was beating to the rhythm of her name. Jessica Dark, the woman of his dreams, the woman he yearned for in the solitude of the night. 

Jessica Dark, the woman who haunted his dreams and filled his waking thoughts with a longing as deep as the ocean and as vast as the sky. Jessica Dark, the woman who was his phantom, his angel, his enigma.

His mind wound back to that fateful encounter, her visage under the silvery moonlight etched indelibly in his memory. He remembered the sensation, the strange and captivating feeling that he had partaken in a moment of time that was unique, precious, something that the cosmos would never replicate.

Her eyes had met his, innocent and curious. Her voice, gentle as a summer breeze, had carried a question that had nestled itself deep within his thoughts, “Do you believe in reincarnation, John Wingliss? Past lives? Because there’s something beautiful about the notion that we’ve loved each other across space and time.”

For a brief moment, he had let himself be carried away in her pure belief. Her earnest gaze had warmed the icy shield around his heart, made him yearn for something more. He had looked back at her, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he replied, “Right now, I’ll let you convince me of anything.”

She had then posed another question, a simple yet profound one, her words dancing in the wind between them, “Can’t you just convince me that this world isn’t all lies?” And her eyes, full of hope and naivety, had searched his for reassurance, for an affirmation to cling to.

His answer had been equally simple, yet it spoke volumes. He hadn’t uttered a single word. Instead, he had leaned in, gently capturing her lips with his own. A kiss that had bridged the gap between reality and falsehood, that had made her believe, even if just for a moment, in the veracity of their world.

The taste of her lips still lingered in his memory, a shared moment of truth in a world teetering on the brink of deceptions. It was a truth that needed no words, no reassurances. It was a truth felt in the shiver that ran down their spines, in the rapid beating of their hearts, in the silent promises breathed into each other.

Yet, for the time being, he allowed himself to be enveloped in the warmth of the two stunning women — Kateryna and Ana — from the casino below. Their laughter filled the room, their perfumes mingling in the air, creating a heady aura that he allowed himself to indulge in so that he could for just a moment, forget the name of Jessica Dark.

“Who’s your favorite, John Wingliss?” Kateryna teased, her voice ripe with playful challenge. “Clearly, a man of your taste would prefer my company.”

Ana tossed a pillow at her in feigned irritation. “Why fuss over taste when you can have wild fun? The things I’d do for another night with you, John…”

“Like what, dare I ask?” Kateryna shot back, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“I’d walk through hellfire,” Ana fired back, her words hanging in the air between them, promising a passion as intense as the flames she professed to brave.

“And that’s exactly what he’d be playing with, messing around with a firecracker like you,” Kateryna quipped, placing a hand on the covers above his groin.

Ana feigned a gasp of outrage. “You didn’t seem to mind a few minutes ago, and I didn’t hear him complaining either.”

“You’re right. Who cares about class?” Kateryna quips, as she pushes herself off the bed, her movements a dance of contours and elegance, a shadowy figure brought to life by the shimmering glow of moonlight spilling through the glass balcony doors. 

Her stride held a certain feline regal flavor, each footfall carrying the quiet confidence of a woman used to being the object of adoration. As she crossed the room, the soft whisper of silk against skin filled the silence, a subtle reminder of her undeniable presence.

She pivoted gracefully, her hand coming to rest on a mahogany case resting nonchalantly on the polished table. From within, she retrieved a cigar, its supple wrapper gleaming beneath the soft glow of the moonlight. The smooth touch under her fingertips was an echo of lavish decadence; it was not just a cigar, it was an epitome of luxury, a sign of the indulgent world they inhabited.

Striking a lighter, she brought the flame to the cigar’s end, her eyes smoldering with the same fiery intensity. The flame danced, casting a warm, flickering light that splashed across her face, transforming it into a tantalizing chiaroscuro. It was a scene straight out of a renaissance painting — the perfect blend of shadow and light that gifted her with an enigmatic allure, making her beauty even more captivating, if that was possible. 

“That’s a Regius Double Corona,” John’s voice cut through the silence, a warm baritone laced with amusement. He lounged in the bed, a knowing smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Fifty thousand dollar cigar.

“Is that so?” Kateryna replied, her voice a sultry hum.

Her lips curled into a playful smirk, a twinkle of audacity glinting in her emerald eyes. She exuded a sense of daring that was as intoxicating as it was electrifying. Drawing the cigar to her lips, she inhaled slowly, her eyes never leaving John’s. And perching herself on the edge of the table, her legs elegantly folded yet revealing just enough to tease the imagination.

With the slow deliberation of a seasoned temptress, she drew the unlit end of the cigar downwards, slowly opening her legs. Her gaze never wavered from John’s. Just as he wondered what audacious move she’d make next, she flicked her wrist, sending the cigar spiraling into the night, its glowing ember tracing a fiery path in the inky abyss.

But John didn’t flinch. He only locked eyes with her, his smile morphing into a grin that was equal parts wicked and charming. 

“I like you because you’re bad” he declared, the words a whisper in the silence. The implication, however, was crystal clear. He didn’t mind her being bad. Not one bit. He turned to Ana. “And you’re no angel either. But I think I need more… tangible evidence before I make a decision.”

John pulls himself from the tangled mess of sheets and passion and hopped from the bed.

“So… beg your pardon, ladies, but one must freshen up before the encore,” he said, a hint of playful smirk dancing on his lips. “You owe me for that cigar, and I intend to enjoy every moment.”

Their laughter chimed in the room, their agreement as clear as the night sky outside.

He retreated to the bathroom, setting the water to run. But this was John Wingliss, a master in the game of shadows. Somewhere within him, he already knew the truth: beauties such as these didn’t drop into his lap, not without a price. 

He knew the rules — an empty room, an open door, a burning romance, a budding friendship; each one a beautifully wrapped pitfall. 

John examined his reflection in the bathroom mirror, those steel-blue eyes staring back at him with an unnerving calmness. His gaze held an unreadable quality, like the still surface of a deep ocean hiding turbulent currents below. The mirror was a silent confidante, the only one privy to the shadows that occasionally flickered across his otherwise impassive eyes.

“Fate never lies,” he says quietly.

For an instant, just a fleeting sliver of time, there was a hint of something more beneath the stoic facade. Was it sadness? Perhaps. But Wingliss didn’t allow himself the luxury of such emotions. Still, the glimmer was there, the barest specter of human vulnerability that was almost instantly swallowed by the relentless tide of his resolve.

The truth was an unwelcome companion, but one he’d long grown accustomed to. There was no easy path for men like him, and he knew all too well that when fate dealt the cards, they were seldom in his favor. Yet, it wasn’t about the hand you were dealt, but how you played your cards, and John was a master player.

This time would be no different. Every victory was hard-won, every moment of respite had its price. That was the immutable law of his existence, and the sooner he faced whatever awaited him on the other side of that door, the better.

It was then that the sense of danger prickled at the back of his neck. The room outside was too quiet, the air almost stagnant. He pressed his ear to the door, senses sharpened to the point of divination. 

And there it was — a soft, almost inaudible click of a pistol hammer being drawn back. A deadly whisper in the silence. 

An icy surge of adrenaline jolted Wingliss into motion, his body rolling fluidly aside as gunfire echoed in the small confines of the bathroom, the high-end fixtures disintegrating under the barrage. Bullets tore through the opulent door, turning the rich mahogany into a spray of splinters.

With the primal grace of a panther, Wingliss launched himself through the shattered remains of the door, his physique a storm of chiseled sinew and simmering fury. His fist, as unyielding as a sledgehammer, cut through the air in a swift, devastating arc, connecting with Kateryna’s face with an audible crack of yielding bone.

Fueled by an instinct honed by years on the perilous edges of geopolitics, his fingers closed around the cool grip of her fallen weapon. Spinning on the balls of his feet, his body coiled like a spring, he turned and discharged the pistol in one sleek, lethal motion. A strangled gasp of shock and pain tore through the room as Kateryna crumpled to the floor.

A smug ripple of laughter slashed through the heavy pall of gunsmoke. John spun around, adrenaline fueling his hyper-aware senses. 

“Don’t you even want to know who sent us?” she teased, her hand sliding into her bag, only to reappear holding a compact grenade, the cold metal glinting ominously in the dim light.

“Another rich asshole puppeteer pulling strings,” he responded, a dismissive wave of his hand slicing through the tension in the room. “They all blend together for me.” His voice was cool, nonchalant, the embodiment of composure amidst chaos.

“Sounds about right,” Ana retorted, a victorious smirk tugging at her lips. Her arm moved in a swift, fluid motion, tossing the compact grenade towards him with casual ease. The sharp tang of ignited fuse hit his nostrils, a potent reminder of the impending chaos encapsulated in such a small device.

In a heartbeat, Wingliss was in motion, his body propelling itself towards the open balcony, the rapid thud of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He vaulted over the rail, his fingers gripping the cold metal in a vice-like clasp, his body suspended over the dizzying abyss just as the penthouse suite behind him roared into an inferno of heat and shrapnel.

A victorious cackle spiraled down from the balcony, with Ana looming like a triumphant hawk above him. “It seems you’re at an impasse, Wingliss. You’re all out of exits.”

A mirthless grin spread across John’s face. He fumbled for his phone in his pocket, extracting his earbuds. “Oh, my dear. You severely underestimate the game we’re playing.” His thumb flicked over the screen, for a second hovering over a track named “Experimental Project Hero,” but ultimately selecting a tried and true track with a familiar title: ‘Aegis Initiative: Survival Instinct.’

As the energy of the subliminal track flooded his mind, Wingliss let the tension drain from his body. His eyes slipped shut, the world condensing into the intimate symphony of a flowing river enveloping his senses. The sharpening of focus, the honing of instincts – it was like drawing a blade across a whetstone. For a suspended moment, time seemed to dilate, the world holding its breath in anticipation of the grand finale.

Ana’s eyes rolled dramatically, the corners of her mouth twitching with an irritated sneer. Her gun, a sleek promise of lethal danger, was now pointed unerringly at him. “Got any last words, Wingliss?” she jeered, the mocking tone dancing in her voice. “Make it worth our while. I need a good story to tell about the day I put an end to the great John Wingliss.”

“The thing is,” he retorted, his smirk unwavering as he met her gaze, “I was about to extend the same courtesy.” Without a hint of warning, he lobbed his phone in a precise arc at her, the gadget slamming into her gun hand with unexpected force.

A yelp of surprise tore from her lips as the pistol slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the cold marble of the balcony. Seizing the moment of distraction, Wingliss swung himself over the railing, his body a fluid arc of momentum. He charged at Ana, his form a whirlwind of controlled aggression.

Their clash was brutal and swift. Wingliss was a storm personified, each strike a gust of wind, each block a shield against her tempest. She faltered, overwhelmed by his onslaught, and soon found herself sprawled on the cold balcony floor, gasping for breath as if she’d been submerged in an icy lake.

John retrieved her discarded pistol, his grip firm against the icy metallic body of the weapon. His stare bore into her, a penetrating gaze as chilling as an Arctic blast. “What were you saying about last words?” His tone was frigid, a glacial stream flowing from the depths of his indifference.

Desperation flickered in her eyes, a dawning terror etching lines of fear into her once-cocky expression. She stammered out a plea, her voice tremulous. “Please, don’t—”

He raised a hand, silencing her with an imperious gesture. “Silence now, the King Speaks.” His words were a ghostly murmur, a phantom whisper that hung in the charged silence of the night. And the roar of the gunshot shattered the stillness, a thunderclap in the dark finality.

The inklings of an idea unfurled within him. He had a guess about the source of the double agents, a name only murmured in hushed reverence within society’s loftiest tiers. A name that resounded with dread and respect alike – OMEN. An enigmatic figure, or figures deemed untouchable, unreachable, even by him.

A wave of sorrow washed over him, momentarily casting a grey pallor over his steely resolve. With OMEN on his trail, he realized the bitter truth – he could never see her again. Her life would be threaded with peril if he dared to cross her path. His heart heavy, he acknowledged the daunting task before him – erasing the presence of someone who had permeated every fiber of his being, someone unforgettable.

Jessica.

And so, he purged himself, washing off the remnants of an evening steeped in intoxicating indulgence. He slid into the welcoming arms of the night, vanishing like a specter into the obsidian veil. All that he left behind was the startling echo of a gunshot and a chilling memory, suspended in the air like a spectral wisp of smoke. His spectral presence, even in absence, held a haunting resonance – a silent, chilling elegy for the man that was, and the love that could never be.

JOHN WINGLISS & JESSICA DARK WILL RETURN IN SEDUCTRESS DARK.