Henry stepped out of the mansion foyer and back into the garage. The black 1969 Dodge Charger waited exactly where he'd left it—engine still warm, chrome glinting under the overhead lights like it knew what was coming.
He slid behind the wheel, the leather creaking under his newly godlike frame. The dashboard lights glowed a soft crimson. No GPS. No radio. Just a small silver dial embedded in the center console, unmarked except for a faint etching of a film reel.
He turned it.
The garage walls shimmered and dissolved. The Charger's engine growled low, then roared as the world outside folded like celluloid burning at the edges.
Colors bled—sepia to technicolor to neon—and then snapped into focus. Los Angeles.
Present day.
Sunset Boulevard at golden hour. The Charger materialized on the shoulder of the 101, engine purring like a satisfied predator.
Henry didn't question how it knew where to go. The multiverse apparently had a sense of dramatic timing.
He pulled into traffic smoothly, the muscle car drawing stares from every Prius and Tesla it passed.
Drivers gawked.
Phones came up. He didn't care. Let them film. Let the world see the man who looked like Henry Cavill but moved like something carved from myth and malice.
He drove with purpose, guided by an instinct that felt like script pages flipping in his mind. He knew exactly where she would be tonight—because he'd seen the tabloid patterns, the Instagram stories, the carefully curated "candid" moments from years of projection-booth observation.
Kylie Jenner didn't hide anymore.
She performed.
The Charger rolled up to a private rooftop club in West Hollywood just as the sun dipped below the skyline.Valet didn't even ask for keys; the kid just stared, mouth open, as Henry stepped out.
Six-foot-three of sculpted perfection in a tailored black shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to show forearms that looked capable of bending steel.
Jeans that cost more than most people's rent (infinite wealth made tailoring instantaneous). No watch except the sleek Omnitrix on his left wrist, matte black and red, looking like high-end jewelry.
Heads turned the second his boots hit the pavement.Inside, the club was all glass and low lighting, bass thrumming through the floor.
Bottle service girls in shimmering dresses paused mid-step. Influencers' mid-selfie froze. Conversations died like someone hit mute.Henry didn't rush. He walked like he owned the gravity in the room.
She was at the far end of the rooftop, surrounded by a loose circle of security and friends, laughing at something on her phone.
Kylie Jenner—twenty-something billionaire, cosmetics empire queen, reality-TV royalty. Long dark hair cascading over bare shoulders, lips painted that signature glossy red, body wrapped in a sheer black dress that left nothing to imagination and everything to desire.
She was beautiful in the way only someone who'd spent her life being photographed could be: polished, aware, untouchable.
Until tonight.
Henry approached without hesitation.Security tensed, but something in his stride—calm, absolute, predatory—made them hesitate. One guard stepped forward anyway.
"Sir, this is a private—"
Henry met the man's eyes. Just looked. The guard swallowed, stepped back, and waved him through like he'd been given new orders from God.
Kylie noticed him then. Her head turned.Eyes widened fractionally—recognition, confusion, then something hotter.
She set her phone down slowly. "You're… Henry Cavill," she said, voice low enough that only the people closest heard.
A small smile tugged at her lips. "But better."
Henry stopped a respectful distance away—close enough she could smell the faint leather-and-cedar of his cologne, far enough she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze."I'm Henry," he corrected, voice deep, British-accented, velvet over steel. "And you're Kylie."
She laughed softly, the sound practiced but genuine. "Most people lead with 'I'm a huge fan' or 'Can I get a selfie?' You just… know."
"I've watched a lot of screens," he said simply. "Yours is one of the more interesting ones."She studied him—really studied. The jawline sharper than any paparazzi photo had captured.
The shoulders broad enough to block out the city lights behind him. The way he stood: no fidget, no nerves, just quiet, overwhelming presence.
"You're not here for small talk," she said, tilting her head. "So what are you here for?"
Henry smiled. It was slow, deliberate, and it made the air feel thicker. "To offer you something no one else can."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim black card—no logo, no name, just matte black with gold foil edges. He handed it to her between two fingers.
She took it, curious. Flipped it over. Blank on the other side too.
"Very mysterious," she teased. "What is it? Black Amex for billionaires?"
"Better." He leaned in slightly—enough that she felt the heat radiating from his body. "It's access. To anything. Anywhere. No limits. No questions. Try it."
Kylie arched a perfect brow, then pulled out her phone. She tapped the card against the back—NFC—and her screen lit up with a new banking app she'd never seen before. Balance: ∞
She blinked. Swiped. Numbers didn't change. Infinite.Her breath caught. "This is real?"
"As real as I am."She looked up at him again, slower this time. Appraising. Hungry.
"You could buy half the city with this," she murmured. "I already own half the city," Henry said quietly.
"And the other half is next. But I'm not here to buy real estate."Her lips parted. "Then what?"
"I'm here to buy time," he said. "Your time. Your attention. Your… everything." The words landed like a promise wrapped in threat. Kylie didn't flinch. If anything, her pupils dilated.
"You think you can just walk in here and claim me?" she asked, but there was no anger in it—only challenge.
Henry stepped closer. Close enough that the sheer fabric of her dress brushed his shirt. "I don't think," he said. "I know."
He reached out—slowly, giving her every chance to pull away—and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her skin. Warm. Electric.
She shivered despite the California night.
"You've spent your life performing," he continued, voice dropping to a rumble only she could hear. "Selling beauty. Selling fantasy. But you've never had someone who could give you the real thing. No scripts. No filters. Just power. Pleasure. Possession."
Kylie's chest rose and fell faster. She didn't move away."And what do I get out of it?" she whispered.
"Everything you've ever wanted," Henry said. "And everything you didn't know you wanted. Wealth that makes your empire look like pocket change. Safety no bodyguard can provide. Adventures no private jet can reach. And me."
He let the last word hang.She stared at him for a long beat. Then she laughed—low, throaty, delighted.
"You're insane," she said.
"I'm inevitable." Another beat.Then she slipped her hand into his. "Show me."
Henry led her through the crowd. People parted like water. Phones were out, but no one dared approach. At the valet stand, the Charger waited—doors already open, engine idling.
Kylie slid into the passenger seat without hesitation. The leather was cool against her thighs. She looked at him as he got behind the wheel."Where are we going?"
"Somewhere private," he said. "Somewhere yours—if you want it to be."
He pressed the silver button on the dash. The world folded again. This time slower. Sunset Boulevard blurred into streaks of light. The city lights twisted into impossible shapes. Then snapped.
They were in the garage. Kylie blinked, disoriented for half a second. Then she saw the mansion beyond the open doors. Marble. Gold. Endless.
She stepped out slowly, heels clicking on polished stone. Looked up at the grand staircase that seemed to climb forever. At the movie posters lining the walls—some classics, some modern, some… hers.She turned to Henry. "This is yours?"
" Ours," he corrected. "If you stay."
She walked forward a few steps, running her fingers along the banister. Then she looked back at him—eyes bright, lips curved. "You don't waste time, do you?"
"I've wasted enough lifetimes already."
Kylie smiled—slow, wicked, matching his. "Then let's not waste any more." She held out her hand again. Henry took it.
And together they walked up the staircase into the heart of the mansion—where endless doors waited, and the first one already had her name glowing faintly in gold script on the handle.