Page 54 of Mane Rival in Store

“Your condition is flaring up.”

“Come inside.”

TWENTY-TWO

LARK

The Sterling den was a court. Lark recognized it in the first thirty seconds—the way a daughter of Vivienne Coleman and Harrison Coleman recognized power staged for impression. The marble floors, the original art, the chandelier casting structured light across a room designed to make visitors feel exactly as welcome as the host intended and not one degree more. This was not the brownstone’s generous sprawl. This was curated authority. The lion’s version of a throne room.

She loved it. She also wanted to rearrange the flowers.

Rune guided her through the receiving room with his hand at the small of her back—a touch that sent heat radiating from the contact point through the silk of her dress and into her spine. The touch was new. Post-rooftop new. Since the kiss, the physical grammar between them had shifted. He touched her now—the small of her back, her elbow, the brush of his fingers against hers when passing a coffee cup across the workstation. Each contact point brief, deliberate, and maddening in its restraint, because Rune Sterling did not do casual. Every touch said I chose this, and the choosing made her skin hum.

Aspen intercepted them in the hallway.

“LARK.”

Golden, crackling with the energy of a fashion designer who had crossed an ocean for a cape photograph. She seized both of Lark’s hands. Her grip was firm and immediate and her smile was everything Rune’s wasn’t—open, unguarded, the full wattage of the Sterling charm that their father had gifted to one child and withheld from the other.

“I have been WAITING. I’ve seen your stores on Instagram. The visual merchandising in the Tokyo pop-up was—can we talk about the color-blocking in the cosplay corner? The gradient from the accent wall to the product display? That’s a level of spatial storytelling that⁠—”

“Aspen.” Rune’s voice arrived from behind Lark’s shoulder. Controlled. Warning.

“I’m INTRODUCING myself. This is how people introduce themselves, Rune, with enthusiasm. You should try it. Instead of telling women they look relevant.”

Lark pressed her lips tight against the laugh. “He said that, yes.”

“Of course, he did. He once told a date her perfume was ‘efficiently distributed.’ She did not call him back.” Aspen released Lark’s hands only to link their arms, steering her deeper into the den with proprietary ease. “Come. You need wine. And Mother needs to see you before Yara does, because Mother has a strategy and the strategy works better if she’s already formed an alliance.”

“An alliance?”

“My mother operates on a diplomatic timeline. She’s been planning this dinner since the vault. The VAULT, Lark.”

They entered the dining room on the second floor. The table gleamed—bone-white china, crystal, silver, the pale peonies centered in low arrangements that wouldn’t obstruct sight lines. Twelve place settings. Astrid Sterling stood at the head of the table adjusting a water glass by a centimeter, and the care in that single centimeter told Lark everything: this woman and her own mother occupied the same stratum. Different style, identical intent. The table was a battlefield dressed as a dinner party.

Astrid turned. Took Lark in with a single sweep—the dress, the curls, the gold at her ears, the posture—and the look held no warmth and no hostility. It held intent. This woman was measuring staying power, not appearance.

“Ms. Coleman.” Astrid extended her hand. Cool grip. Firm. Brief. “My son described your inventory for forty-five minutes on a phone call to his sister. He then described you for an additional twenty minutes. This was before the vault.”

“Mother.” Rune’s voice from the doorway carried the strained calm of someone watching a controlled detonation in slow motion.

“I’m providing context.” Astrid released Lark’s hand. “The wine is a 2018 Burgundy. I selected it because your mother mentioned you prefer French reds. At the Arts Foundation gala. In March.”

The information chain was staggering. Vivienne Coleman to Astrid Sterling to a wine selection calibrated for a dinner that hadn’t been scheduled in March. These women were playing chess across months, and Lark was standing on the board in a dress, wondering how many of her life’s recent coincidences had actually been coincidences.

“My mother mentioned my wine preferences to you. In March.”

“Your mother and I serve on the Harlem Arts Foundation board. We discuss many things. You were one of them.”

Astrid handed her a glass of Burgundy. Lark took it. The wine was perfect.

The Pride members filtered in. Torsten and Maren, who greeted Lark with the formal courtesy of people who had been told to be welcoming and were executing the directive competently. Dekel, who emerged from the kitchen with a beer and a grin and whispered as he passed: “The ring-tapping starts at the appetizers. Don’t take it personally. She taps at everyone.”

And then Yara.

Councilwoman Vender-Lindgren entered the dining room the way weather systems enter a region: the atmosphere shifted before she appeared. Lark straightened. She’d been briefed—Rune had explained the council’s authority, the political dynamics, the significance of the senior councilwoman’s opinion—but briefing was not preparation. Yara Vender-Lindgren in person was a force that resisted advance description.

Tall. Silver-streaked. The chignon like a crown she’d given herself. The signet ring on her right hand catching candlelight as she entered. Her eyes found Lark across the table with the focused efficiency of a marksman acquiring a target.