18:35 PM | Dinner Table Discussion
The mahogany gleamed beneath candlelight. Servants moved in near silence, plates arranged like art pieces. Crystal clinked softly. Conversation hummed at a low, conspiratorial pitch the sound of people who had things to hide and money to spend hiding them.
Aveline settled into her seat with economical grace, smoothing her dress once before reaching into her clutch. She pulled out a pair of black square-framed glasses Gentle Monster, expensive, understated — and slid them on.
Adrian watched her for a moment. Then his gaze swept the room the other tables, the guards, the sightlines. He put it together in seconds.
"So you can watch without being watched," he said quietly. "Track movement. Study faces. No one feels your eyes on them."
"Yes."
He tilted his head, thinking. "How many guards have you spotted so far?"
A pause behind the dark lenses. Then: "Twelve. Two more in the back corners bad angle, but I caught the reflection on their cufflinks. Plus one undercover at the bar pretending to be a guest. His hand never leaves his hip."
Adrian nodded slowly. "And the exits?"
"Four main. Three service. One ventilation shaft in the kitchen too small for most people, but noted anyway." She glanced at him. "You're asking better questions than most partners."
"I've been doing this awhile."
"I know." No sarcasm. Just acknowledgment.
He leaned back, letting his gaze drift lazily across the room like a bored date. "Anything else I should be watching for?"
She turned slightly, the dark lenses catching the candlelight. "The woman in red. Three tables over, ten o'clock. Voronova Region territory. North Ironcliff. Russian and Italian roots. Rivals of La Sangre Nera."
Adrian glanced casually in that direction. Blonde, severe features, jewelry that looked more like armor than adornment.
"How deep does the rivalry go?"
"Generations. Bodies buried in it." Her voice dropped, matter-of-fact. "Their leader black hair, eyes like fractured crystal. Blue, but cold. The kind that don't blink when they should."
Her fingers traced the stem of her water glass absently, a rare unconscious gesture.
"She moves like a storm in a glass cage. Controlled violence. You see her coming, but you can't look away. Commands artillery with a whisper. Runs half the Ironcliff armory under false contracts. Very efficient operation."
Adrian studied her. She's describing a criminal warlord like she's reviewing a quarterly performance.
"You've worked with her before."
Not a question. A statement.
Aveline's head turned toward him slowly. Behind the lenses, something shifted.
"That's a smart question," she said quietly. "Yes. Once. Four years ago. Different job. Different continent." A pause. "She's competent. That makes her dangerous. But she's also predictable she always takes the long play. Never the short win."
"And you?"
"I take whatever works." She picked up her champagne glass, took a measured sip. "Now eat. We need to look normal."
A server appeared, placing the first course in front of them with practiced silence. Aveline examined it briefly not with pleasure, just cataloging. Food as fuel.
"Eat," she said quietly. "We need to look normal. And you'll need energy if things go sideways later."
"Optimistic."
"Realistic." She picked up her fork with precise efficiency. "Things always go sideways. It's just a question of when and how badly."
18:55 PM | Main Hall
Dinner progressed with the slow, agonizing pace of formal events. Courses appeared and disappeared. Conversation flowed around them shallow, careful, everyone performing for everyone else.
Aveline played her part with mechanical perfection. She made polite small talk with nearby guests, smiled at appropriate moments, laughed softly when socially required. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted. Every gesture served a purpose.
The glasses stayed on. Behind them, her eyes never stopped moving. Tracking. Cataloging. Building a map of threats.
Adrian found himself studying her. The way she mirrored people's body language just enough to put them at ease. The way she timed her responses with mathematical precision. The way she could make eye contact that felt engaged without actually being engaged because nobody could see where she was really looking.
It was like watching someone run code.
Then, from a nearby table, a voice cut through the ambient noise harsh, arrogant, deliberately loud.
"Mongrels like this bring disgrace to the Canadian pureblood."
Adrian's gaze snapped to the source. A man sharp-faced, expensive suit, cruel mouth. Cedric. He was gesturing dismissively toward their general direction, though not looking directly at them.
"They don't know a thing about being pure. Probably can't even trace their lineage back three generations without hitting a brothel or a boat." Laughter from his table, sycophantic and ugly.
Aveline went very, very still.
Adrian felt it before he saw it — the shift in air pressure, like the moment before lightning strikes. Her pleasant mask didn't slip. It just... stopped. Became neutral. Blank.
Behind the dark lenses, something flickered. Something ancient and hungry crossed her face for just a second. Then it was gone.
The champagne glass in her hand cracked.
Not shattered just cracked. A soft, wet sound. Blood began beading along her palm as shards bit into her skin, red against pale flesh and cream dress.
Adrian flinched. She didn't.
She set the broken glass down with careful precision, pulled a strip of gauze from her clutch — of course she had gauze and began wrapping her hand. Her movements were steady, methodical. Not from pain management. From restraint.
As she worked, the fabric of her dress shifted slightly. Adrian caught glimpses of scars beneath the silk pale lines, puckered tissue, old burns, what looked like bullet marks poorly concealed by expensive fabric and careful tailoring.
And here I was thinking I had it rough.
Her body was a map of violence survived. And right now, every line of that map was screaming one message: murder.
She finished wrapping her hand, smoothed her dress, and stood with fluid grace. Her expression was perfectly pleasant. Perfectly controlled. Perfectly empty.
The man laughed again, still oblivious. Fatal mistake.
Aveline's smile was a precision instrument polite, calm, terrifying in its absolute lack of emotion.
This idiot doesn't even realize he's poked a viper.
She excused herself from the table with quiet politeness. "I'll be right back. Powder room."
Adrian watched her go, already knowing what was about to happen.
Moments later, Cedric excused himself. Washroom.
Adrian counted to ten, then stood. "I'll... check on her. Make sure she's alright."
Nobody questioned it. Concerned boyfriend, checking on his date. Perfectly normal.
He followed the direction they'd gone, footsteps quiet on marble.
18:58 PM | Washroom Corridor
The corridor was quieter here, muffled from the main hall. Expensive wallpaper, soft lighting, the kind of tasteful décor that cost a fortune to look understated.
Adrian found the men's washroom door slightly ajar. No sound from inside.
Should I? Shouldn't I?
Curiosity and something like morbid fascination won.
He pushed the door open just enough to see inside.
18:58 PM | Washroom Interior
Cedric was frozen against the sink, face pale, eyes wide with the sudden understanding that he'd made a catastrophic error in judgment.
Aveline stood behind him, one knee pressed with surgical precision against his lower abdomen not quite his groin, but near enough to make the threat unmistakable. A knife was at his throat, the blade catching fluorescent light. Not pressed hard enough to cut. Not yet.
Her glasses were gone now. Her bare eyes were visible dark, focused, utterly empty.
The scent hit Adrian even from the doorway: gunpowder, spice, jasmine, mixed now with Cedric's fear-sweat and the sharp tang of adrenaline.
Her face was completely calm. Not angry. Not satisfied. Just... blank. Focused. Like she was performing a medical procedure.
"Move, speak, or flinch," she said quietly, her voice pleasant and utterly devoid of inflection, "and I won't act so kindly."
Cedric's reflection in the mirror was pure terror. Her reflection was perfect composure.
She leaned closer, the knife adjusting with minute precision. "Say that again," she murmured, tone still pleasant, still empty. "About mongrels. About purity. I'd love to hear it one more time."
He tried to speak. Only a strangled sound escaped.
Her lips curved into something that looked like a smile but wasn't. "No? Nothing to add?" She tilted her head slightly, curious. "That's disappointing. You were so articulate before."
The knife pressed fractionally closer not cutting, just reminding.
"Let me be clear," she continued, her voice remaining that same pleasant, helpful tone. "You can insult whoever you want out there. Free country. But if you're going to run your mouth about bloodlines and purity..." The smile widened slightly. "Make sure you know whose blood you're discussing."
She held the position for one more eternal second.
Then, with the same mechanical precision, she withdrew. The knife disappeared into some hidden fold of her dress. The knee released. She stepped back smoothly, adjusting her clutch as if she'd just finished checking her makeup.
Cedric sagged against the sink, gasping, trembling.
Aveline examined her gauze-wrapped hand briefly, adjusting it with clinical efficiency. Then she met his eyes in the mirror one last time.
"Enjoy the rest of your evening," she said pleasantly.
She turned, saw Adrian in the doorway, and didn't even blink.
"Ready?" she asked, tone perfectly normal. "We should get back before they serve the next course. I think it's duck."
She walked past him into the corridor, leaving Cedric pale and shaking behind her.
Adrian stood there for a moment, processing what he'd just witnessed.
She threatened a man with a knife. In a public washroom. At a formal gala. And now she's worried about missing duck?
He followed her back into the hallway.
She glanced at him, expression mildly curious. "You alright? You look pale."
"I'm... processing."
"Mm. Understandable." She pulled her glasses from her clutch and slid them back on, the dark lenses hiding her eyes once more. "He'll be fine. Might need new pants, but fine."
"You held a knife to his throat."
"Near his throat. There's a difference." She said it the way someone might correct a minor factual error. "If I'd held it to his throat, there'd be blood. There wasn't. Therefore, restraint."
Her logic was airtight and completely insane.
"Right," Adrian said slowly. "Restraint. That's... one word for it."
She looked at him, something calculating behind the dark lenses. "He insulted me. Publicly. I corrected his behavior. Privately. He learned a lesson, nobody died, we go back to dinner. This is what's called 'proportional response.'"
"Proportional."
"Relatively speaking." A slight shrug. "I could have done worse. I didn't. That's growth."
She said it with absolutely no irony.
Adrian just stared at her.
She tilted her head, expression shifting to something almost... concerned? Possibly? Hard to tell with the glasses. "Look, if this is too much for you, I can handle the rest solo. You can go back, play the 'concerned boyfriend who had to leave early,' and nobody questions it. Your call."
She said it matter-of-factly. Not dismissive. Just... offering options.
Adrian thought about it. Thought about Marcus. About the winking emoticon. About the files full of horrors. About the fact that Nexo was selling apocalypse by the vial in the room next door.
"I'm staying," he said.
Her expression didn't change behind the dark lenses, but something in her posture shifted. Approval, maybe. Or just acknowledgment that he'd made a tactically sound choice.
"Good," she said simply. "Then let's get back. We've got an auction to observe."
She offered her arm. The same arm that had just held a man at knifepoint.
Adrian took it.
They walked back into the main hall together, two sharp shadows moving in perfect sync.
To anyone watching, they looked like a couple returning from a brief absence. Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening.
Just another pair of beautiful monsters at a party full of them.
19:15 PM | Return to Main Hall
They slipped back into their seats just as servers appeared with the next course. Aveline sat with perfect posture, reached for her wine glass with her bandaged hand, and took a measured sip. Her glasses caught the candlelight, hiding everything behind them.
"Duck," she confirmed, glancing at the plate. "Called it."
Across the room, Cedric returned to his table. He was pale, quiet, and didn't look in their direction for the rest of the evening.
Aveline cut into her food with precise movements, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. "Not bad. Little dry, but the sauce helps."
Adrian just stared at her.
She glanced at him. "What? I'm hungry. Threatening people burns calories." She said it completely deadpan.
He let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're insane."
"Functional," she corrected and took another bite. "Eat. You'll need your strength. Auction starts in fifteen minutes, and that's when things get interesting."
She said it like she was looking forward to it.
Adrian picked up his fork.
Marcus died for this. So let's make it count.
19:30 PM | Pre-Auction Preparation
The dining hall began to empty as guests migrated toward the auction room. Conversations shifted — quieter, more focused. The performative charm dropped a degree. Now it was business.
Aveline stood, smoothing her dress with her good hand. The bandaged one hung at her side, blood having seeped through slightly, a small dark stain against white gauze. Her glasses remained in place, dark lenses catching the low light.
"Ready?" she asked.
Adrian stood. "As I'll ever be."
Her hand found his — careful of the bandage, but firm. To anyone watching, it looked like a couple holding hands. Comfortable. Natural.
Her grip was cool, steady, controlled.
"Remember," she said quietly as they walked, "you're observing. I'm participating. If you see something worth noting, signal. Otherwise, just look bored and wealthy. You're doing fine so far."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"It's not confidence. It's assessment." A pause. "But you're doing better than most partners I've worked with. Most of them panic by now."
"Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"Both, probably." The faintest hint of amusement in her tone.
They entered the auction hall a smaller, more intimate space. Velvet chairs arranged in neat rows. A raised platform at the front. Lighting designed to make everything look valuable and slightly sinister.
Aveline guided them to seats in the middle not too close, not too far back. Strategic positioning.
As they sat, her hand rested lightly on Adrian's knee beneath the table. To observers, it looked affectionate, possessive even.
Behind the dark lenses, her eyes scanned the room one last time.
The auctioneer stepped onto the platform, impeccably dressed, smile sharp as a blade.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Welcome to this evening's exclusive presentation. We have some truly exceptional items for your consideration tonight."
Aveline leaned closer to Adrian, her breath warm against his ear. To anyone watching, it looked intimate.
"Here we go," she whispered.
The gavel came down with a sharp, echoing crack.
BANG!
The auction had begun.