The Crown’s Legacy | Prequel of The Dark Kings BWWM Mafia Serial

Chapter 1 – Eden

The moment I saw him, my finger froze on the shutter.

He stood apart from the crowd like a predator among prey—utterly still, dangerously watchful, power radiating from him in almost visible waves. Unlike the other men in standard black tuxedos, he wore a deep navy suit that fit his broad shoulders like it had been poured onto him, his olive skin a striking contrast against his crisp white shirt. But it was his eyes that truly captured me—dark, intense, scanning the room with calculated precision.

My heart kicked against my ribs as I instinctively raised my camera and captured the shot before I could think better of it. Through my viewfinder, I watched his head turn sharply, those penetrating eyes now locked directly on me.

Girl, what have you done?

“I told you to stay invisible, Foster.” My boss James appeared at my elbow, his hushed voice tense with alarm. “That’s Dorian Kane. He doesn’t like being photographed, and he likes photographers even less.”

I lowered my camera as the man himself began moving through the crowd with purposeful strides. Toward me. The sea of New York’s elite parted before him like water, no one daring to impede his path.

“Try not to mess this up,” James muttered, already backing away, straightening his bow tie for the tenth time since we’d arrived at the Kane Charity Gala. “The Kanes don’t give second chances.” With the loyalty of a true boss, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone to face the approaching storm.

I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, clutching my camera like a shield. I was just doing my job, documenting this exclusive event like I’d been hired to do. The fact that my pulse was racing had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the magnetic pull of the man now standing before me, close enough that I could smell the subtle notes of his expensive cologne.

Lord, the fakeness in this room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Every smile calculated, every handshake strategic. I could practically smell the old money and privilege mingling with five-thousand-dollar perfumes. But Dorian Kane was different—authentic in his intensity, unapologetic in his power.

“The press table is near the entrance.”

His voice was deeper than I expected, with a hint of roughness that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I found myself standing straighter, uncomfortably aware of his presence overwhelming my personal space.

“I’m not press,” I replied, meeting his gaze directly.

His eyes—a gray so dark they bordered on black—scanned my face, then dropped to the camera in my hands. “Then you shouldn’t be taking photos.”

Something about his dismissive tone sparked my temper. Who did this man think he was? I mean, I knew exactly who he was, but still.

“I’m the photographer hired for this event. By your family’s event coordinator.” I reached into my clutch, pulling out my credentials. “Eden Foster, Elite Photography.”

He didn’t bother looking at the badge, his gaze never leaving my face. “We don’t allow candid shots of the Kane family without approval.”

I couldn’t help the slight smirk that tugged at my lips. “Afraid the camera might steal your soul, Mr. Kane?”

A flicker of surprise crossed his features, there and gone so quickly I would have missed it if I weren’t studying his face so intently. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something that transformed his severe expression into something infinitely more dangerous.

“You have no idea what I’m afraid of, Ms. Foster.”

The way he said my name sent another wave of heat through me. This was ridiculous. I needed to get a grip.

“Look, I’m just doing my job. If you have concerns about the photography contract, you should take it up with your event planner.”

“Delete it.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The photo you just took. Delete it.”

My fingers tightened around my camera. The audacity of this man. “I don’t delete my work.”

Something shifted in his expression—a darkening, an intensity that should have frightened me. Instead, it sent a thrill of something I refused to identify racing through my veins.

“That wasn’t a request.” His voice had dropped lower, almost a whisper.

I took a deliberate step closer to him, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne something expensive. “Neither was mine. I don’t delete my work, Mr. Kane, not even for men who think their bank accounts entitle them to control everything around them.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment we stood there, locked in some unspoken battle of wills. The ballroom, the music, the glittering crowd—it all seemed to fade away, leaving just the charged space between us.

“Dorian.” A smooth voice sliced through the tension. Another man, similarly built but with a more polished demeanor, approached. “There’s an issue that requires your attention.”

Dorian’s gaze held mine for one more burning second before shifting to the newcomer. “What is it, Matteo?”

I used the moment to step back, heart still racing. The second man was Matteo Kane. I’d come across the name while prepping for this event—Kane Industries’ “strategist,” polished where his brother was pure threat.

“A possible concern with one of the guests,” Matteo said, his voice carefully modulated. His eyes flicked to me briefly, assessing, before returning to his brother. “Eastern side of the ballroom.”

Dorian nodded once, then turned back to me. “We’re not finished, Ms. Foster.”

It sounded like a promise. Or a threat. Either way, it sent another rush of heat through my body, pooling low in my belly.

“Looking forward to it,” I replied, the words escaping before I could think better of them.

Something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes before they went cold again. Without another word, he turned and moved through the crowd with his brother, the sea of people parting for them instinctively.

I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, my fingers still tingling from their tight grip on my camera. What the hell was that? I wasn’t the type to get flustered, especially not by entitled rich men with superiority complexes.

Girl, who you think you’re fooling? The voice in my head sounded suspiciously like my best friend Tasha’s. That man had you ready to combust right there in your sensible heels.

After our confrontation, I tried to get back to work, reverting to my usual routine—tracking the light, finding the angles, capturing genuine emotions amid the practiced smiles. Through my lens, I could see the subtle hierarchies at play: who deferred to whom, whose laughs were genuine, whose touches lingered a beat too long. But my mind kept drifting back to those penetrating eyes.

I was so focused on regaining my composure that I nearly backed into a server while photographing an elderly couple dancing.

“Sorry,” I murmured, sidestepping without looking up from my viewfinder.

By the end of the evening, my feet were killing me, but my memory card was filled with shots that would make James weep with joy. I’d captured the mayor’s wife in a rare genuine laugh, a tech billionaire looking wistfully at his ex across the room, and countless candid moments that told more truth than any posed photo ever could.

Throughout the evening, I’d been aware of Dorian’s presence across the room—occasionally catching glimpses of him moving through the crowd, feeling his gaze on me when I least expected it. Each time our eyes met, even from a distance, that same electric charge shot through me.

Taking advantage of a momentary lull in the festivities, I found a quiet corner and navigated to the photo I’d taken of him, examining it on my display screen. It was perfect—capturing the alertness in his posture, the intensity in his eyes as he surveyed the room. There was power there, but also something else…a watchfulness that bordered on hypervigilance.

My finger hovered over the delete button for a moment. Then I scrolled past it and continued to the next shot. No man, no matter how commanding his presence or how intense his gaze, was going to dictate my art.

Besides, I thought with a small smile as I readied my camera to return to the still-bustling gala, I had a feeling that defying Dorian Kane might become my new favorite hobby.

With at least another hour of photography ahead of me, I straightened my aching back and rejoined the glittering crowd. What I didn’t know then was just how dangerous that hobby would turn out to be.