Rhysant’s jaw is set hard, sharp cheekbones flushed with a bitterness barely concealed beneath his slate-gray suit and the precise knot of his tie. His eyes, cool and unreadable, scan the empty gallery where Ithran’s photographs should have been—the walls now bare, spotlights shining cruelly on nothing. Rhysant stands in the hush, back straight, hands clenched until the knuckles pale, savoring the silence his sabotage has wrought. There’s a flash of satisfaction in his gaze, but underneath, something acid flickers—a memory he can’t swallow, a grudge that tastes like old blood.

In another corner of the city, Lera is the picture of power in a body-skimming black dress, her posture knife-edged and deliberate as she glides through the marble lobby. She commands space by existing, each look calibrated: lips painted ruthless red, hair in a glossy twist that declares she’s unbreakable. Rhysant finds her at the bar, and their eyes meet—a collision, not a greeting. His smile is thin, almost mocking.

“You always were good at turning a setback into a spectacle,” he murmurs, voice low, with a pointed, icy edge.

She turns so he can see the arch of her brow, the way her fingers cradle a glass of whiskey—unfazed, yet there’s a faint tremble of anticipation in the set of her shoulders. “I thrive on spectacle,” she returns, her tone a dare. Their banter is flirtation disguised as fencing, each word testing for weakness. Rhysant leans in, the brush of his sleeve against her bare arm electric, and for a breathless second, her control wavers. The air between them brightens with possibility—then she pulls back, chin high, and the spell shatters.

It’s Sidelle who gives Lera her edge. Sidelle’s eyes are fox-bright but wary, her jeans tight and hair mussed from a restless night, lingering too long outside the VIP booth. Lera slides up to her, voice soft, syrupy. “You’re close with Ithran, aren’t you? He ever tell you what he’s really after?” There’s a shimmer of desperation in Sidelle’s laugh, but the promise of inclusion is too sweet. She spills fragments: Ithran’s fear of exposure, his hunger for escape, the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes. Lera listens, feigns indifference, but her pupils dilate with each secret.

Later, Ithran finds Lera in a dim office, the only light from the city’s glow spilled across her legs. He’s reckless in a threadbare gray t-shirt, hair messy and camera slung like an afterthought, breathing hard as if he’s outrun regret. Their words are banter—sharp, charged—but their bodies betray them: her mouth meets his, abrupt and fierce. The desk shudders beneath their urgency; Lera’s breath catches, nails raking Ithran’s back as she fights for dominance, refusing to let him see how want unravels her composure.

Ithran kisses her jaw, bruised with longing. “You always want to win,” he whispers, lips trembling against her skin. Lera laughs, soft but unsteady. “Takes one to know one.” They’re both trembling, circling the edge of surrender—until guilt pierces Ithran’s hunger. He pulls away, not meeting her gaze. Lera sits up, dress tangled, pride wounded but face unreadable. For a moment, he looks almost broken, as if freedom’s come at too high a price.

In the hallway’s half-light, Ithran catches a glimpse of a photograph taped to the wall—black and white, the grainy intimacy unmistakable. It’s him and Lera, locked together, desire raw and faces exposed. There’s no name, no threat, only the image—a weapon waiting to be used.

He tears it down, breath shaky. Someone is watching. Secrets, now, are currency—and everyone is broke.

To be continued...