Sylith’s uniform presses tight against her shoulders as she paces outside Arkyn’s private suite, her jaw clenched. Eyes as dark as polished stone sweep the corridor, missing nothing, not even the tremor in her own white-knuckled grip on her earpiece. The gala’s hush doesn’t reach her—inside, she’s nothing but the static of dread and longing. When Arkyn finally opens the door, he says nothing, simply gestures her inside with a flick of his ringed fingers. His smile is all razor edges: “Tell me, Sylith, how many rules have you already broken tonight?” Her posture is iron, chin high, only the barest flinch in her brow betraying the echo of his words. For a heartbeat, his eyes linger at her throat like a question he’s already answered.

He circles behind her, a predator savoring unease. “This can all come down around you,” he murmurs. “One report. One slip.” She doesn’t move, but a bead of sweat runs under her collar, and her breath falters. She wants to spit his words back, but she’s so tired—of guarding everything, even from herself. Instead: “My loyalty’s never been in doubt,” she says, low. Even now, the lie tastes like old blood.

Out in the staff hallway, Maelis stands against a battered door, arms crossed over her chest, coat half-slipped from one shoulder, her glitter-streaked cheeks sticky with sweat. She scrolls frantically through texts, thumbs shaking—the latest from Seria: “Where r u? Scared. Don’t let them find me.” Maelis’s heart squeezes with the kind of fear that never truly leaves. She draws in a steadying breath, wincing at the ache in her back, the way her toes throb in too-tight shoes, but she forces herself forward.

She nearly collides with Sylith, who emerges from Arkyn’s office with her control battered but not broken. Sylith’s mouth is a hard, unreadable line, but for a flicker—there, a crack. “You need to move your kid,” she mutters, quick and sharp, not unkind. The tip of her gloved finger lingers at Maelis’s wrist, electricity buzzing in the touch, though neither says a word about it. Maelis lowers her gaze, lashes trembling, looking for a foothold. “Why are you helping me?” Her voice is whisper-thin, half-hope, half accusation.

Sylith hesitates, caught off guard by the question, her jaw shifting as if she might bite the answer before it escapes. She glances away. “Maybe I’m sick of watching everyone pretend they don’t care,” she grates out, eyes shining with something raw and dangerous.

Maelis’s posture softens, armor slipping; for the first time tonight, she lets herself lean—just a little—into someone else’s strength.

On the mezzanine, Leor stares at his own reflection in a crystal pitcher, face pale, tie loose, smile a desperate crescent. His hands are jittery, nails bitten raw. Bottles of pinot lined up like a firing squad. When Maelis brushes past him, hiding tears behind a broken-lip smile, something inside him buckles. He tries to joke—“You sure know how to leave a trail of broken hearts and wilted hydrangeas”—but his voice cracks. She doesn’t answer.

Leor’s stomach knots; he slips outside into the staff alley, leans against the cold bricks, and slides a trembling hand into his jacket pocket. The pill bottle rattles. He tells himself he’ll just hold it, just for a second, just to feel the weight, but his hands don’t listen. Swallowing is mechanical, almost detached, his breath fogging out in quick bursts.

Back in the main corridor, Sylith stalks away from Maelis towards the ballroom. The weight of Arkyn’s threat—job, purpose, her entire carefully constructed self—tightens around her throat. She pulls a tall, silver-haired guest aside, voice cool as steel: “You. With me.” In a dim, velvet-draped antechamber, she pushes him against the wall, her hands rough and hungry, breath trembling against his mouth. His jacket is half-off, her gloves tugged away. She nips at his jaw, fingers tangled in his hair, chest pressed to his—needing distraction, needing to lose herself in sensation instead of fear. It’s not tender. It’s desperate, almost cruel, her mask finally splintering as she moves, command fraying into wildness, a torrent of sensation that leaves him breathless, her eyes wet with something she can’t name.

After, she buttons her shirt with shaking fingers, refusing to meet his gaze, and slips back into the shadows alone.

Elsewhere, Maelis's phone buzzes—no answer from Leor, and a cold worry slides down her spine. She finds him crumpled by the catering exit, lips blue, breathing shallow. Panic seizes her. She drops to her knees, palms to his face. "Leor! Look at me, come on, please—" Her voice breaks, all pretense gone. She fumbles for her phone, calls Renn—voice wild with terror—“He’s not breathing! Hurry!”

Renn’s footsteps thunder down the corridor, jacket flapping, eyes wide and wild. He kneels beside Maelis, hands steady even as his face contorts with panic. Together, they work—compressions, prayer, begging—until finally Leor gasps, coughing, drawing shaky breaths.

Maelis clings to him, crying into his shoulder, mingled relief and guilt in every heaving sob. Renn leans against the wall, sweating, chest rising and falling in brutal relief, haunted by what they almost lost.

A radio crackles at Sylith’s ear, Arkyn’s voice like a blade: “Security breach in the courtyard. All staff report—now.”

The night, already trembling with faultlines, has begun to split wide open.

To be continued...