Infinite 8 (eBook)

Anna Teleki (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
300 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-108861-0 (ISBN)

Infos

'Infinite 8' is a sweeping, multi-part dark romance and corporate thriller. It follows the life of an heiress, Aya Luna, as she navigates two different epic loves, a brutal war for a corporate empire.

​The story is split into two primary sagas: her relationship and alliance with two different yet powerful billionares to achieve her goal: freedom and peace...

Dive Into the Infinit

​Craving a captivating, endless story about freedom, war, alliance, and love? Then dive into the world of Aya Luna.

​Born into unimaginable wealth but suffocated by expectation, Aya refuses to be a pawn in a corporate game. Her daring act of rebellion at the altar sparks a dangerous war for control, throwing her into the path of a mysterious figure who embodies both terror and temptation. He teaches her the brutal rules of survival, forging an unlikely alliance born from chaos and undeniable attraction.

​But betrayal runs deeper than she could imagine, forcing her to vanish and fight for her freedom in the shadows. Years later, a new power player emerges, threatening the quiet life she's built and offering a dangerous bargain tied to the secret she guards most fiercely.

​Caught between empires, haunted by a past love, and drawn into a new, high-stakes game, Aya must decide who to trust and what she's willing to sacrifice. Explore a world of secrets, passion, and power where the fight for freedom is truly endless.

Textauszug

​ At the King Holding gala, Eiden, the company’s leader, endures the night. Only one thing cuts worse than the vicious cold of the camera flashes: the King name. The blue light of the flashes hits his face like a caustic breeze with every single click.

​He stands motionless at the edge of the room, a silhouette carved from black marble amid the dizzying swirl of elegance. His gaze is fixed on the distance, but his body betrays the rigid tension: his pupils are dilated, his face held taut, wearing a mask of indifference. He feels the expensive, slim-fit suit pulling tight across his shoulders. It is the uniform of a luxury prison.

​Aurora King, the PR manager, approaches him.

​“Eiden, Le Monde wants you. It's mandatory.” Aurora's voice is even, but it rings with a steely hardness.

​The man nods, a small, clipped movement. No words are necessary; his sister's suffocatingly sweet, floral perfume precedes her like a toxic cloud.

​“No. Aurora, send them away. My name is enough.”

​Aurora’s face freezes, her features instantly taking on the rigidity of porcelain.

​“Father says publicity is essential for the legacy!”

​The man parries with a single word, one that is a command for his sister since childhood.

​“Silence.”

​Aurora turns instantly on her heel, her chin lifting in a gesture of profound offense. Her silk dress glides across the floor with a soft, paper-like rustle.

​Eiden draws toward the darkest corner of the room, toward the lonely red light of the emergency exit sign. The touch of the wall’s cool stone brings immediate, exquisite relief to his palm as he sinks into the depths of the shadow. The air in this corner feels cleaner and cooler than the room’s thick, hot, perfume-laden atmosphere. The darkness of this luxury prison provides the greatest comfort.

​2.

​ May 2033. Karl King’s Paris office. The King Holding patriarch's office is not merely a room, but a temple of power, frozen in ice. The light from the crystal chandelier penetrates the air like sharp, stabbing needles.

​At opposite ends of the thick, ice-cold glass table sit the two most dangerous men in the world. Lord Alaric Luna, head of House Luna, spreads the terms across the surface: numbers, graphs, legal clauses. Karl King nervously examines the documents; the heavy, gold ring on his hand slowly rubs the mahogany surface.

​Lord Luna leans forward elegantly; his silk tie barely moves. His voice is calm, but every word moves millions of dollars, filling the space like pulsating, invisible electricity.

​“A two-trillion-dollar merger. The only way for full integration: marriage.”

​Lord Luna points to the far corner, where a tall, dark silhouette stands before the window. The summer sun does not reach him. He stands there, motionless, like a built-in security feature. The light breaks on the man's shoulders, but his features are hidden behind a thick, opaque shadow, as if he merges with the marble wall.

​Karl King massages his wrinkled forehead. He knows his son will not allow this, but he also knows that for his son, silence is the most important currency.

​“Let’s see the stakes, King,” Luna begins, his voice as sharp as shattered glass. “Seventeen pharmaceutical companies, with tentacles reaching from Paris all the way to India. The wind energy firms, whose network spans Germany and extends to the endless Russian steppes. All of it can be yours.”

​Lord Luna pauses for a moment, his finger tapping a new data sheet. A portrait of a young girl stares up from the surface. “And at the end, the seal of the deal. The pledge that guarantees it.” Beside it on the paper are the cold facts, as if describing a breeding animal. “Aya Luna. Nineteen years old, 160 centimeters, 52 kilograms. Her measurements are a tailor's dream, size S, so she always finds clothes. Wears size 36 shoes. Untouched. Excellent grades, just graduated. A quick learner, quiet, beautiful, and”—here Luna’s voice hardens—“obedient.”

​The dark silhouette slowly moves. His steps are soft, almost inaudible on the thick wool carpet. He turns slowly toward the two businessmen, but even now, he remains just a faceless, sharp outline in the weaker light. In a mechanical, emotionless voice, as if reading stock data, he repeats Lord Luna’s offer, without even glancing at the bride’s portrait.

​“Nineteen years old. Untouched?” The words are just data, chemically pure, emotionless. “Beautiful and obedient. And the inheritance is the entire Luna... worth trillions from the pharmaceutical and wind energy industries.” The man stops. The silence in the room swallows the noise of Paris, as if someone switches off the city. Minutes pass. The tension leaves a stinging, metallic taste in the mouth. The man declares the final word in a cold, objective tone. “Accepted.”

​3.

​ Nineteen years old. Aya’s presence does not demand attention; it simply is—a quiet, unbreakable harmony of luxury and austere art. Her body carries the cold fineness of smooth marble statues; she moves as if quick motion is impossible, yet her lines possess innate, perfect proportionality.

​The most striking thing is her hair: a chocolate-brown, fragrant waterfall that tumbles in free waves, reaching all the way to her bottom. The silky curls brush against her skin with every minimal shift, creating a soft, barely perceptible sound—it is her only noise. To touch it is to place liquid silk in your palm.

​Her face is porcelain-pale, her skin so noble it barely catches the available light. Only rarely, in the most shocking, sudden moments, does she blush, when a warm, quick flood of blood casts a rosy veil over her composure. Her eyes are coal-black, doe-like, holding a gaze that is at once innocent and infinitely deep. When she closes them, dark velvet curtains descend, sealing her off from the outside world.

​Aya shrugs off most jewelry. She is accustomed to the heavy, soft-to-the-touch haute couture clothes of House Luna, yet glittering bracelets are foreign to her. She prefers quiet elegance: a fine gold ring that immediately takes on her skin's warmth. Her arms and neck remain unadorned; she favors the purity of their natural lines.

​But the most defining thing, what truly unlocks Aya's being, is her passion for painting. The canvas becomes her only true freedom. In the studio, the quiet, reserved girl transforms into a passionate creator. Her brushwork is powerful; fire seems to shoot from her fingertips as she presses bold, thick colors onto the coarsely woven canvas. Here, the acrid, sharp smell of turpentine is her weapon—the clean air where the soul can finally breathe.

​*

​ On a massive display covering the entire wall, numbers breathe. Stock market data and diagrams of global money flows alternate in green and red waves. At the center of the room, as the single focal point, the net worth pulsates like a living, frantic heart.

​KING NET WORTH:

$6,911,822,103,991.74

$6,997,101,004,512.03

$6,989,458,321,009.40

​The numbers dance dizzily below the seven-trillion-dollar line, never quite crossing it. In the display's cold glow, a soft but ambition-fueled voice speaks.

​“Money breathes... It must be made infinite. And for that... I need a few more trillion.”

​4.

​ The last, dying rays of the May sun paint the huge, arched windows of the Luna residence a viscous, blood orange. Inside the elegant, classicist mansion, the silence is tense and pulsating, almost tangible, like frost. Only the sharp, lonely echo of Aya’s steps on the marble floor and the dull clinking of unseen silver cutlery split the air.

​Aya Luna now steps into the foyer. The black, stiff paper folder containing her graduation diploma presses into her palm. Though the paper is weightless, she feels as if a thousand tons of cold iron press on her spine. Her shoulders slump inward under the invisible burden.

​“Aya, darling!” Her mother greets her, a slender, timeless-looking woman who strokes the polished, cold surface of a crystal vase by the entrance. “Hurry! Your father waits at dinner. He has a special announcement.”

​The smile on her mother’s lips is stiff and cold, but the blood already freezes in Aya’s face. The chilling certainty of bad news shutters her focus. She quickly places the folder on an antique table; the clack on the wood surface sounds surprisingly loud in the silence. She starts toward the dining room, a knot of hammering fear tight in her chest. Every step on the marble stairs twists her stomach, as if a cold, tight ribbon winds around her organs.

​5.

​ At the head of the table sits Lord Alaric Luna, Aya's father—a man in his fifties, strict, pressed into a black tuxedo. His gaze shines with the ice-cold light of unquestionable, generational power. His rigid posture radiates tension, like a steel string about to snap.

​“Congratulations on your diploma, Aya,” her father says. His voice is dry as desert dust, a statement of fact devoid of all emotion.

​“Thank you, Father,” Aya replies. Her tongue feels heavy, like a piece of lead. She tries to focus on her plate, playing with the tines of her fork. The metallic touch does not help her concentrate. She knows this is the moment. She must start the execution now. “Father, I’d like to...”

​“Let's drop the subject!” her father cuts in. He raises his palm, stopping his daughter like a traffic cop. The gesture is lightning-fast and final....

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 11.11.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Kinder- / Jugendbuch
• ISBN-10: 0-00-108861-0 / 0001088610
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-108861-0 / 9780001088610