Tavian nearly pulls his own badge off its lanyard as he enters the glass-walled conference room. He’s underdressed—a navy sweater, work-worn jeans, blue sneakers that scuff softly against the tile. His posture is rigid with nerves, hands gripping a battered laptop, knuckles white. Lyska is already there, poised at the head of the table in a cropped black blazer and tailored trousers, her one bare ankle crossed over a stiletto. Her stare is knife-sharp, lips pressed into a sulky smirk, dark hair cascading over one shoulder. She doesn’t look up immediately, but Tavian feels her gaze flicker, assessing, waiting for weakness.

Aelira enters without warning. Her stride is all certainty: tall, angular, hair scraped into a severe knot, black-framed glasses glinting. She wears slate-gray suiting, like armor, but her eyes—frost blue, shrewd—scan the room like it’s evidence. She sits with a controlled sigh and lays her battered legal pad on the gleaming table, making Lyska stiffen. Tavian senses the heat between them, not from memory but from the taut electricity sparking in the air.

“New blood,” Aelira intones, nodding at Tavian. “And already in the rumor mill.” Her voice is low, precise—deliberately provocative. Lyska’s mouth twists with challenge; her tongue flicks at the corner of her teeth with practiced derision.

“He handles pressure better than most,” Lyska murmurs, shifting forward so her shirt gapes at the collarbone. She meets Aelira’s stare with a defiant, almost playful glint, and Tavian, half-invisible, feels something sick and hot slide through his gut. He tries to focus—on the numbers, the slides, anything but the friction arcing between these women and the way Lyska’s voice roughens ever so slightly when she’s challenged.

The meeting dissolves into argument. Lyska, all flashing eyes and controlled venom, interrupts Aelira at every turn. She leans in, nails tapping rhythmically, lips parted as though the taste of victory is always just out of reach. Aelira doesn’t flinch, simply studies her with a slow, amused disdain that makes Tavian ache to leave—and ache to stay. He feels off-balance, like the entire world is tilting around Lyska’s laughter, Aelira’s icy retorts.

The air between Lyska and Aelira simmers with a tension so palpable Tavian feels it prickle along his skin. Lyska’s bravado slips for a heartbeat, her gaze darting to the window, fingers trembling faintly before she grins—wide, wild, self-destructive. Tavian recognizes that look, wonders what or who she’s protecting behind that mask.

“Someone should warn you, Frendell,” Aelira says, voice softer now but edged in warning. “Glasswell eats the reckless.” She leans closer, eyes on his, and Tavian’s breath stutters at the proximity. He nods mutely, devastated by the certainty that she knows—knows more than anyone should.

When the meeting ends, Lyska brushes past Tavian. Her perfume—jasmine and sharp green—lingers in his throat. She pauses, hand drifting to his waist, fingers splaying just under the hem of his sweater in an almost accidental caress. “Come find me tonight,” she whispers, her lips grazing his ear, each word a dare and a promise. Tavian shudders; the contact is brief but seismic. Lyska strides away, hips swaying.

Tavian’s phone vibrates, a message from Viessa: “Aelira’s dangerous. Watch your back.” His pulse hammers as Aelira stays seated, eyes on him, inscrutable.

“Don’t let her destroy you,” she says quietly, not specifying who. She’s softer in this moment, and Tavian reads exhaustion beneath the sharp lines of her face, the tension in her posture as she finally stands. He’s left alone, chest tight, replaying every charged glance.

Later, in the hallway, Tavian catches flashes of Lyska and Dersh nestled together in the shadows outside the rooftop bar—her laughter low, her hand possessively sliding into his jacket, their kiss fierce and hungry. Tavian’s heart knots with jealousy and confusion, shame prickling along his skin. He doubles back, avoiding their gaze, but their silhouettes linger behind his eyes.

Aelira finds him by the elevators. She circles him like a hawk, her gaze unblinking. “We should talk,” she says, her voice grave. She blocks his path, and even as Tavian tries to shrink away, she steps into his space—close enough for him to see the faint scar beneath her left eye, the tension in her jaw. “I know what you did. And it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does too.”

Tavian’s stomach plummets. Sweat beads at his hairline. “I—I didn’t—” he stammers, but Aelira shakes her head: Not here. Not yet.

The elevator dings. She leaves him trembling, alone, watching the doors slide shut with the certainty that his secret is no longer his own.

To be continued...