Massive golden vases with intricate art lined the hall, cradling white chrysanthemums whose petals gleamed like fresh snow. Tall stalks of pampas grass rose above them, feathery plumes swaying gently in the warm drafts from the low-hanging chandeliers. Beige and brown curtains cascaded from the tall arched windows, heavy velvet that caught the candlelight and turned it soft. The candles on every table trembled in their silver holders, casting a golden, inviting glow across the room—no trace remained of the near-catastrophe that had unfolded here just hours earlier.
Low murmurs wove through the air, punctuated by the delicate clink of glasses and the kind of laughter that carried the unmistakable ring of old money and older power. The elites had arrived from every corner of the city and the neighboring territories—women in beaded gowns that shimmered like spilled mercury, men in tailored silk with cufflinks that cost more than most men earned in a lifetime.
A man descended the grand staircase, champagne flute in hand, trailing light behind him like smoke. Atlas followed close behind, dressed in a cream suit that fell impeccably over his frame, brown shirt unbuttoned at the collar in casual defiance, cream high-waisted trousers completing the look of effortless elegance. The older man shared Atlas's hazel eyes, but time had etched deeper lines around them, given his face the weight of authority and wear. Donovan Draven—controller of the clan in the western city of Venetia—lifted a silver spoon from the nearest table and tapped it against his glass.
The clear ring cut through the room like a blade. Every head turned.
"Attention, my dear guests," Donovan said, voice smooth and carrying, the practiced cadence of a man who expected obedience. "I trust you're enjoying the evening."
Smiles bloomed across the crowd; a few raised glasses in silent salute.
"But tonight we gather to celebrate something truly monumental. After five long years, we have reclaimed Falcon Port from the Varkis filth. It is ours again."
The hall erupted—cheers, applause, hands lifted high. Women's chained jewelry jingled like distant bells, turning the moment almost magical.
"It was all under the brave supervision of my son," Donovan continued, seizing Atlas's hand and raising it high. "His plan. His vision. And as you can see—we have succeeded."
The roar grew louder still. Women who had already been watching Atlas now leaned forward, eyes bright with admiration. Atlas offered only a cunning half-smile, rubbing the side of his neat moustache with one finger, gaze sweeping the room without ever truly settling on any face.
Donovan's voice rose again, warm with pride. "And let us not forget my daughter—Roseline! The light of my eyes."
He scanned the hall, searching for her. She was nowhere to be seen. A flicker of irritation crossed his features, quickly masked. The guests noticed too; heads turned, whispers stirred.
"She has made me prouder than words can say," he pressed on. "She settled the score with the Varkis who once dared lay hands on my son. She went straight for their heir—Valentino."
The crowd thundered approval once more.
Atlas caught his father's glance—the silent order. He dipped his head once and slipped away from the staircase, moving toward the side corridor with his usual graceful stride. Only someone watching very closely would notice the faint hesitation in his left step, the limp he carried.
In the private dressing chamber upstairs, Lorelai opened the velvet box with careful fingers. Inside, nestled on a mannequin head, lay the pearl headpiece, delicate chains of shimmering pearls cascading like frozen waterfalls, catching every flicker of lamplight. She lifted it gently, reverently, and crossed to the vanity where Rose sat.
Rose stared into the mirror like a swan regarding its own reflection, distant, almost absent. When Lorelai approached, their eyes met in the glass. No words passed between them. The silence was thick, heavy with everything unsaid.
Rose's gaze dropped first. Lorelai stepped behind her, fingers steady as she settled the piece on the top of her head, and it trickled around her ears and the sleek bun at the nape of Rose's neck. She pinned it with slow, precise movements.
Rose looked paler than usual. She had been like this since yesterday: distracted, coiled tight beneath the surface. The banquet pressed down on her like a stone on her chest. What if she had failed? What if three bullets hadn't been enough? Failure was the one thing she feared more than death itself, and Lorelai could see it etched in every line of her posture.
It was just then that three soft knocks sounded at the door.
Both women turned their heads. A man stood framed in the doorway—navy-blue military uniform crisp as fresh ink, gold chains glinting from the buttons, pleated epaulettes crowning broad shoulders. A peaked cap sat sharp on his head, shadowing wavy brownish-blond hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. Green eyes caught the lamplight like polished jade.
Lorelai dropped her gaze at once, bowing low, hands clasped tight before her. Rose, however, jolted upright from the vanity stool and flew across the room, throwing herself into his arms as though six months of separation had been six years.
"Joseph," she breathed.
His hands went straight to her back, sliding up to cradle her neck. He buried his face against the curve of her throat, inhaling as if she were the only air he'd breathed in months. The zardozi embroidery on her black qipao strained and split with a faint, sharp tear at the seam—neither of them noticed or cared.
In the next heartbeat their mouths met, hungry and unhesitating. Rose's fingers threaded into his hair, nails digging into the waves as though anchoring herself against a tide. Joseph pulled her closer, deeper, the kiss swallowing the quiet room whole.
Lorelai knew better than to stay. She dipped another quick bow barely seen and slipped out, closing the door behind her with the softest click. The glass panel was perfectly transparent; anyone passing could see exactly what was unfolding inside. But propriety had long since abandoned these two. Everyone knew Joseph and Rose would marry one day. The distance only sharpened what had always been inevitable.
Still, Rose wasn't fully dressed. Lorelai couldn't leave her post entirely. She leaned against the corridor wall just outside, rubbing one itchy calf against the opposite ankle, hands clasped like a soldier at rest. A yawn built in her throat; she opened her mouth to let it out, then snapped it shut so hard a bubble of air lodged painfully behind her tongue. Her foot stamped once against the floor—reflex, embarrassment—before she caught herself. Footsteps approached.
Her head dropped instantly. Atlas. Even without looking she knew it was him—the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and old paper that clung to his clothes, the measured rhythm of his stride. Heat flooded her cheeks. Whatever was happening behind that door suddenly felt like her fault, as though she'd orchestrated the entire reunion just to embarrass the family. And after the morning's incident—falling into his arms like some clumsy fool—she wanted nothing more than to vanish into the wallpaper.
Atlas paused beside her. A brief glance downward, nothing more. Then, under his breath, almost amused: "It seems Joseph is back."
A small joke. Lorelai didn't lift her head, didn't respond. She simply stood there, statue-still, praying he'd move on. He didn't.
"How are your knees?"
She blinked, startled enough to glance up. He'd recognized her of course he had and there was no point hiding now. But knees?
He read the confusion on her face and his lips curved, just enough.
"You slammed them pretty hard this morning," he teased, voice low and light.
Her heart kicked against her ribs fast, erratic. Why was he being kind? What did he want? Did she know something she shouldn't? Her throat tightened.
"Thank you for asking, young master," she managed, words tumbling out in a rush. "That's so kind of you." Atlas exhaled through his nose a sound halfway between sigh and laugh. He leaned back against the cream wall, crossing one ankle over the other, left foot pressing flat to the paneling. The sole left a faint, unmistakable mark on the pristine surface.
Lorelai's gaze snagged on it instantly. So it was him the one leaving those random scuffs and prints on walls she had to scrub until her knuckles bled. The last time she'd missed one, the head maid had taken a thin switch to the back of her hand until the skin split in three places. She swallowed hard, stomach twisting.
Atlas noticed her stare. He snapped his fingers once in front of her eyes—sharp, not cruel—pulling her back.
"Huh?" she blurted.
His lip curled higher on one side. He reached out slowly. Lorelai stiffened, stepping back half a pace on instinct. But he only caught the loose strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek and tucked it gently behind her ear. His fingertips brushed skin for the barest second—warm, deliberate.
"You—" she stammered, breath catching harsh in her chest. "Young master, are you feeling all right?" The words spilled out before she could stop them. "I've heard you've been… sick recently." He never broke eye contact. Those hazel eyes held hers steady. "I am now," he said softly.
He stepped closer just one small step, but enough to shrink the air between them.
"Should I steal you from Rose?" he murmured. "So I can get better even faster? Hm?"
"Huh?" Her brain shorted. Breath stuck somewhere between lungs and throat. Shock widened her eyes; amusement flickered in his.
He stepped back, reached out again this time flicking the tip of her nose lightly with one finger.
"Tell Rose the guests are waiting downstairs."
With that, he turned and walked away casual as though the corridor had never held the conversation at all.
Lorelai sagged against the wall, one hand flying to her chest as though to hold her heart in place. Her legs trembled; she staggered half a step, fingers curling into the fabric over her pounding ribs.'What was that?'
Didn't they say he hated women near him? That a single touch could end in disappearance or worse? Her breaths came in slow, broken pieces. She glanced down the empty corridor where he'd vanished, pulse still roaring in her ears.