Lera’s blouse is a delicate cream silk, crisp and exacting at her throat, every button a signal that nothing is accidental—except maybe the tremor in her hands as she scrolls through her phone outside the elevator. She forces her spine straight, mouth a thin, determined line, but her eyes dart, searching for threats behind every reflection. Her poise is legend, but tonight it’s a costume stitched by desperation.

Her phone buzzes; an unknown number this time. She reads the message—just a single line. Ask him about Friday night. He’ll know. Her thumb hovers, knuckle whitening, then drops the device into her bag before anyone can see her falter. The elevator doors open. She steps inside, gathering her composure like armor.

Downstairs in the coffee shop, Sidelle leans against the counter, waves of platinum hair barely hiding the ferocity in her eyes. Her lipstick is smudged, not artful but bitten, as if mistakes taste better than regrets. She watches Lera’s shadow lengthen on the tile and smiles, sharp-edged, before turning to the espresso machine—a theatre of distraction. Her envy is palpable, sweetened with something like spite. She texts under the counter, the movement sly, her painted nails tapping out a pulse of betrayal.

Ithran storms in from the street, his camera swinging dangerously from his neck, all swagger and nervous energy. His jacket is half-zipped, shirt clinging to skin that smells faintly of cigarettes, rain, and adrenaline. He barely glances at Sidelle as he passes, heading straight for the back—his avoidance as pointed as any insult.

Sidelle calls after him, voice syrupy but brittle. “Forgot something in my storeroom again, Ithran? Or just the taste?” Her laugh is a dagger, but he doesn’t turn. Only his jaw tightens in profile.

Upstairs, Lera’s heels click down the hallway toward the club office. She’s met by Rhysant, whose tailored suit is sleeplessly rumpled, tie loosened, anger radiating from every taut muscle. His eyes—black, unyielding—pin her in place.

“You think you’re untouchable,” he says, voice low, almost intimate. “You’re not. Sidelle’s been talking.” His words are a warning, a threat, and something else—a plea for honesty she won’t give.

Lera’s retort drips with practiced ice: “Worried I’ll take your throne, or just that people will finally see you bleed?”

Rhysant’s hand slams the door behind her. The lock clicks. She doesn’t flinch. This close, their battle lines blur; pride and desperation sparring in the air between them. His stare lingers at her collarbone; her lips part in challenge. He leans in, not for a kiss, but a confession—voice raw. “You’re not the only one with something to lose.”

Downstairs, Sidelle wipes the counter furiously. Her reflection flickers in the glass, the edges warped. She glances at her phone—one message sent, one more to draft. Her pulse dances to a new rhythm: satisfaction mixed with the ache of exclusion. She imagines the chaos she’s seeded, tries on a smile, but it doesn’t quite fit.

Later, Sidelle finds Rhysant alone in the storage room, his shoulders hunched, tie discarded. She moves in, hip brushing his thigh, voice a whisper meant to wound. “You know she’ll never really want you.”

His eyes close for a second, pain leaking through the cracks, but he lets her touch him—lets her pull him in. Their mouths meet, all teeth and bitterness, hands greedy and uncertain. The encounter is frantic, bodies pressed between crates and unspoken grief. There’s a flash of heat, a desperate clutch, but it leaves them emptier, their anger unresolved, their regrets amplified in the hush after.

Sidelle buttons her blouse with trembling fingers, mascara smudged by more than sweat. Rhysant won’t meet her gaze. She slips out, heartbeat frantic, a bitter ache blooming in her chest—victory curdling into loneliness.

Upstairs, Lera’s phone buzzes again. The group chat blazes to life: “You’re finished.” Her pulse stutters. She drops the phone, the screen lighting her face with the cold blue of exposure. For the first time, her composure collapses—shoulders curled inward, breath shallow, the queen caught off her throne at last.

To be continued...