Alexander occupies the far end of the studio with a tie perfectly knotted, jacket seamless, and not a thread out of place. The obsidian fabric strains faintly across his shoulders when he shifts, the only hint that there’s more force beneath the surface than any suit was built to contain. Even now, barely moving, he holds tension in every detail, coiled at the base of his throat, in the way his fingers tap once against the armrest and then still.
The silk of his emerald tie casts a vivid sheen, drawing out the clarity in his eyes, that are sharp and unspeakably clear beneath the dark sweep of his lashes. A sleek black pen spins idly between his fingers. Alexander hasn’t looked up, but the girls hold their breath anyway, suspended in the hope that he might.
“He doesn’t even look real,” Violet murmurs, breathless. “My mum swears he hasn’t aged since she was our age.”
“I don’t care how old he is,” Rosie sighs. “If he looked at me the way he looks at that contract, I’d let him dismantle my life in alphabetical order.”
Violet snorts behind her brush. “Do you think Darkmoor Industries hires stylists? Honestly, I’d do anything he asked.Anything.Have you seen those hands?”
Mae fumbles a compact. “He could sign my arrest warrant and I’d ask for a copy to frame.”
They dissolve into synchronized giggles. It’s absurd, scripted, and yet the heat behind my ribs twists sharp.
“He’s married,” I say coolly, keeping the inflection graceful. “Has been for decades.”
Rosie shrugs, totally unrepentant. “A shame, really.”
“And anyway,” Violet adds with nonchalance, “everyone knows about the affairs.”
My stomach knots. It’s childish, irrational, and completely unavoidable. I want to roll my eyes, to laugh it off like someone older and wiser, untouched by petty jealousy. The rumors are old. They have to be.
As if sensing our attention, Alexander looks up from his papers. His gaze sweeps lazily across the studio, landing right on the girls. With a single raised brow, the corner of his mouth tugs upward and he winks.
They combust. One of them actually squeaks. I tighten my grip on the edge of the vanity to stop myself from launching the lip palette across the room.
“Ladies,” a voice slices through the air. The lead artist arrives in a sweep of cream silk and chilled authority, her gaze flicking from my too-warm cheeks to the flustered trio. “This is a studio placement, not a fan convention. Back to work. Miss Ellis’s interview begins in twenty minutes, and she will look immaculate.”
The girls scatter like startled Flarewings, scrambling to rearrange brushes and palettes, murmuring apologies under their breath. In the mirror, I catch them still stealing glances at Alexander between final touches of gloss and curling irons.
From the far end of the studio, Madeline Shaw arrives in a breath of citrus and moonblossom. Her heels strike the floor with punctuated certainty. She wears a tailored silk suit in powdered blue, pressed so crisply it could slice.
“Luna Ellis!” she chirps, as if we’ve known each other for years. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week. You’re going to dazzle.”
I offer a flawless smile. “Thank you. It’s a privilege to be here.”
She leans in conspiratorially. “The Future of Magic: A Daughter’s Promise.Agorgeous title, isn’t it? Your story is what the people need. Heart. Vision. Legacy.” Her eyes flick toward the hallway. “And between us, you’ve got half the production crew halfway in love. You’re going to break records.”
I excuse myself under the pretense of stretching and slip behind the velvet partition, where the light dims and the quiet swallows everything but the faint hum of hover orbs. Alexander waits in the shadows. He takes one look at my posture—chin lifted a fraction too high, fingers tightening around the hem of my sleeve—and gently closes his hand over mine.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just inevitable.”
I turn slightly, searching his face for assurance, instruction, maybe the reason I can’t seem to exhale. “They’ll ask about the ethics,” I whisper. “About the creatures. The testing.”
He smiles, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then give them beauty,” he says. “A vision so luminous they forget to ask how it wasforged. You’re not defending the Apex Initiative. You’re delivering salvation.”
He steps closer and I inhale the dark threads of his cologne. Smoke and cedar. Something distilled and commanding. His hands rise to adjust my shoulders again.
“I don’t want to sound rehearsed,” I murmur.
“You won’t.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re far too clever for that. And far too beautiful.” His voice drops. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that makes you? How effortless it will be for them to adore you?”
My breath hitches.
“If they press, divert. Tilt your head. Ask a question. Something curious, disarming. Lead them off the path without ever appearing to touch the map. Charm is control. Seduction is survival.” He meets my eyes, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear with almost painful care.
“Five minutes, Miss Ellis,” a voice calls. “I need to take you to the stage.”
Alexander straightens, adjusting his already-perfect tie. “Remember, you’re not the danger. You are the promise. Make them believe it.”
