“Octavia, darling,” she coos, embracing her with a practiced sweep. “You’re luminous. New charmwork around the eyes?”
Ruby Silva says nothing. She never does right away. She watches from behind those cruel little glasses; each blink is an appraisal, each pause a dissection. By the time she speaks, she’ll have catalogued me down to the flaws I thought I’d hidden.
“Come,” Evangeline says, motioning to the floating tea set beside her. Cups hover like obedient satellites, steam curling from their rims. “You must try the rose-petal blend. They say it enhances beauty. Or at the very least, the illusion of it.”
“Along with a touch of soul-price, no doubt,” Margaux murmurs. Her eyes flick toward me. “Careful, Aria. Last time dream-essence was served, someone confessed three affairs, two illegal charms, and a very unfortunate opinion about Octavia’s eyebrows.”
“I remember that tea,” her mother replies coolly. “A delightful afternoon. Very purgative.”
The laughter that follows is thin and glassy. No one means it.
I take my seat last. The cushion shifts beneath me, adjusting to accommodate weight it clearly disapproves of. A cup floats to my place, its steam perfumed with crushed roses. I don’t drink.
The conversation meanders, barbed compliments passed with manicured grace, stories with names conveniently omitted. No one says what they mean. Everyone hears what wasn’t said.
I watch them smile and sip and strike, pretending this isn’t a battlefield dressed in lace and tea service. They trade intel in thelanguage of veiled anecdotes and tonal precision, each word a weapon, each silence louder than a scream. It’s war by etiquette, and I’m the latest conscript in their elegant bloodsport.
“Of course,” Evangeline drawls, “some of us had to claw our way into these circles through results and reputation. But I suppose there’s a certain charm to love matches.” Her eyes flick toward me. “So quaint.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that.” Ruby places her cup down with exaggerated care, her eyes never leaving mine. “It makes sense now, doesn’t it? The wasted potential. All those declined research placements. That promising Ellis mind, gone to waste. But I suppose Aria never wanted to work, not really. Just needed a convenient shortcut into a founding name and here you are.”
I smile sweetly at her. “You’re absolutely right, Ruby. I took the easy route. Fell into Dom’s lap one day and stayed there. All giggles and gowns. Not a single night spent wondering if I’d make it out alive.”
Margaux chokes on her tea, laughing so hard she nearly spills. “Gods, I like her.”
Ruby’s eyes narrow. Behind her glasses, something sharp and starved glints. But Octavia is already leaning in, poise regal and ready to strike.
“Darling Ruby, how quickly you forget. Being married to a man like Dominic Blackwood isn’t leisure—it’s warfare with better tailoring. Affairs to navigate. Power blocs to manipulate. Every gala a gambit, every public appearance a tactical strike. But then, you wouldn’t know much about surviving under that kind of pressure, would you?”
“Tell me, Ruby,” Vivienne chimes in, “does Edmund still let you leave the archives, or does he keep you catalogued next to his illuminated manuscripts? All that genius locked behind glass. A brilliant relic, tragically underutilized.”
Evangeline conceals her amusement with a napkin. Margaux doesn’t bother to hide hers.
Ruby sets her cup down harder this time, the porcelain rattling against the saucer.
“Well,” she says, voice honeyed with disdain, “I do envy you all, really. So engaged. So present. So . . . conspicuous.” Her gaze swings toward Vivienne, daggers disguised as curiosity. “That must be exhausting. All those late nights Alexander spends away. Research, of course. Very immersive. And Luna’s always by his side these days—sharing dinners, trading ideas, carrying the Ellis legacy like she was born to it.”
Vivienne doesn’t flinch, but something flickers in her eyes. She lifts her chin higher.
“My husband’s work is important,” she says coolly. “And Luna has taken over the Ellis research division now that Aria’s aspirations lie elsewhere. They’re pursuing something transformative. The kind of innovation that defines generations.”
“So important,” Evangeline echoes, voice velveted with innuendo. “I imagine Alexander knowsexactlyhow to thank Luna for all her hard work.”
The air goes still. My spine locks, fingers curling white-knuckled around the porcelain stem of my untouched cup.
“Luna would never do something like that,” I say sharply. “She’s brilliant. She earned that position. She deserves it.”
Margaux snorts. “Spoken like a sister still squinting through rose-tinted illusions.” Her smile glints. “Darling, little Luna stopped playing fair the moment she realized the rules didn’t serve her. She’s not innocent, just clever.”
“Speaking of children,” Octavia says, stirring her tea with unbothered grace, “how is Rowe, Vivienne? I heard from Kian that he’s become something of a thorn, causing quite the stir with that sanctuary of his.”
A flicker—irritation or guilt, maybe both—flares in Vivienne’s eyes before she smooths it beneath a polished smile.
“He’ll come around,” she says too quickly. “He always does. He’s a good boy.”
Good boy.As if he’s still eight, chasing starlings through the garden with dirt on his cheeks and blood on his knees.
Octavia exhales a quiet, knowing laugh. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Alex has always been far too soft on that boy. He should take a page from Kian’s book—now there’s a man who understands discipline.”
