The hush of the ballroom had fractured, but as the night dragged on, the scattered pieces were swept into brittle smiles and brittle laughter. The clinking of glasses rang thin, strained; the music, once a golden thread tying the room together, now drifted like an afterthought, its melody fraying at the edges like worn silk, slipping between uneasy conversations and half-finished toasts.
Lottie moved through it all like smoke, slipping between clusters of guests, her presence feather-light, her smile effortless. She let vague pleasantries drift from her lips—"Yes, it's been quite a night," "What a lovely event," "Oh, you know how these things are"—each word honed to an artful neutrality, slipping over the brittle edges of conversation without catching, without lingering.
Her gaze flicked across the room, absorbing every detail—the way the candles trembled in their crystal holders, how the scent of lilies had curdled into something too sweet, how laughter cracked at the corners of lips that just an hour ago had been smooth with certainty. And then—there. Evelyn.
She caught Evelyn's gaze across the room, a sharp glint flickering under lowered lashes. Evelyn's smile was stretched too tight, the corners trembling with the effort, her fingers white-knuckled around a delicate glass, the stem pressing into her skin as if to remind her what remained unbroken. Lottie watched the reflection of the chandelier shiver along the rim of Evelyn's glass, wondered—not idly—whether Evelyn noticed how close her grip hovered to destruction.
Amy hovered at Evelyn's elbow like a ghost, her eyes darting between Evelyn and Lottie, the pale sheen of panic glinting in her gaze like a trapped bird's flutter. Amy's fingers twisted at the hem of her sleeve, small nervous tugs, her mouth pulled into a wavering imitation of a smile that collapsed at the corners every time Evelyn's attention flicked elsewhere.
Lottie's heart gave a measured thud, deliberate, controlled. She felt it ripple up through her ribs, a cold, contained pulse against her collarbone. Every glance, every brittle laugh, every forced toast was a signal, a vibration in the air she read as easily as breath. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the tips of her fingers grazing the cool curve of her neck, the brush of silk against skin a reminder to stay still, stay composed, stay patient. She moved like water, seamless, unobtrusive, slipping from one conversation to another as if she were little more than an echo.
As she drifted past one of the tall windows, the night pressed against the glass, thin frost tracing delicate veins along the edges. Outside, the gardens stretched under the moonlight, silvered leaves trembling in the breeze, bare branches clawing softly at the air. Inside, the hush gathered in corners, hushed words knotting into shadows along the walls.
Her phone buzzed faintly against her palm, the vibration a tremor through her skin. She shifted her weight, fingers curling to shield the faint glow as she lifted her sleeve.
Leo:Good move. Hold your ground.
A breath slipped past her lips, the barest softening of her mouth, a flicker of warmth low in her chest. She tucked the phone away, feeling the quiet weight of his presence like a steadying hand at her spine, a counterbalance to the tension humming through the room.
Father's glance cut toward her then—brief, sharp, unreadable. His brow lifted just slightly, the faintest tilt of his head, his eyes cutting away before they revealed anything more than calculation. Lottie felt the shift of his attention like a cool brush against her skin, the silent assessment of a man who measured strength in stillness, not in sound.
"Charlotte, dear," an aunt murmured, the scent of rosewater heavy on her skin as she leaned close, diamond bracelets brushing against Lottie's arm, "what a shame about the little… mishap tonight. But you've held yourself so gracefully, darling. Such poise."
Lottie's lips curved, smooth, practiced, soft at the edges. "We all have our moments, don't we?" Her voice was silk-wrapped steel, each word gentle, but sharp if one leaned too close.
The woman laughed, brittle as spun glass, fingers brushing Lottie's sleeve before drifting away like a scrap of gauze caught in a draft.
As the night wore on, the room thinned in quiet waves. Clusters of guests melted into murmured goodbyes; the hush deepened between clinking glasses and half-hearted applause. Hugs were offered with cool fingers; kisses brushed air instead of cheek. The music faded into a memory of itself, a faint ribbon curling beneath the swell of voices.
Evelyn remained near the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the spill of light. Lottie could feel the weight of her gaze even when she didn't turn, a quiet pressure sliding along her spine, the faintest ripple of breath against her skin. Evelyn's fingers clenched tighter around her glass, a delicate tremor riding the edges of her smile, her lips just slightly too thin, too pale. Amy murmured at her side, small, desperate sounds meant to soothe, but Evelyn's jaw tensed, the muscle at the hinge twitching once, twice, before she smoothed it down like a wrinkle in silk.
Their eyes met across the room, a thread stretched taut in the hush. Lottie tilted her head, the slow curl of her mouth unspoken poetry—triumph traced in the fine lines of her lips, victory hidden in the soft flicker of her lashes.
She moved past the buffet, where the scent of fading flowers tangled with the faint sweetness of wine and sugared fruit. Guests murmured along the walls, glances darting like minnows through water, every face sharpening into curiosity and speculation.
Outside, the air met her in a rush, cold and clean, a blade slicing through the careful suffocation of the ballroom. She drew a long, steady breath, feeling it fill her chest, cool against the heat coiled low in her ribs. The estate loomed behind her, the windows aglow, a paper lantern drifting in the dark, its light fragile, flickering.
She tipped her head back, let her gaze trace the curve of the moon, the scatter of sharp stars, the cold dark stretched above. The night pressed against her skin, bit at her cheeks, flushed them faintly pink, a reminder that she was still here, still standing, still whole.
Footsteps behind her, soft, measured, the hush of silk against stone.
Evelyn's figure wavered in the doorway, the lamplight spilling gold across her silhouette. Arms crossed, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame, head tilted, mouth curved in something soft, sharp.
"Going so soon?" Evelyn's voice drifted across the night, light as a thread pulled too tight, each word carefully weighed, perfectly shaped.
Lottie let a breath slide past her lips, slow, sure. She turned just enough to catch the glint in Evelyn's eyes, the brittle shimmer of tension riding the smooth curve of her posture. "Some of us," she murmured, voice soft, cool, "know when to leave the stage."
A flicker crossed Evelyn's face, too swift to name—anger, maybe, or the sharp slice of calculation. She smoothed it away in the next breath, the edges of her mouth curving upward, soft, sweet, the faintest glint of teeth beneath the smile. "Be careful, Lottie," she said, her voice almost a whisper, almost a caress. "Sometimes the audience isn't done watching."
Lottie's gaze swept over her, cool as moonlight on water, a touch too brief to sting, just long enough to dismiss. She turned away, the faintest flick of her hair a blade slipped between ribs.
The phone buzzed again, a soft pulse against her palm, the vibration threading through her skin like a second heartbeat.
Her fingers closed around it, thumb brushing the screen.
Leo:Usual place. Be ready.
Her pulse kicked once, a ripple under her skin, the tight draw of anticipation coiling sweet, sharp at the base of her spine. Not fear. Not hesitation. A hunger, thin and bright, for what came next.
Inside, the last toast faded into murmured farewells, shoes whispering against marble, the air thick with the hush of things half-said, half-heard. She glanced back once, over her shoulder.
Evelyn lingered in the doorway, silhouette carved sharp against the soft spill of light, her head tilted just so, mouth curved, a quiet dare strung between them like a silver thread.
Lottie's mouth softened, curved into a slow, sure smile, a shape drawn of calm and quiet defiance.
She turned, the cold biting at her ankles, her steps falling crisp on the stone, the hush of the gardens rising up to meet her, wrapping around her shoulders like a whisper.
The night breathed sharp and cold into her lungs. For the first time that evening, she let her mask slip, just slightly, just enough. Her shoulders rolled back, a breath eased loose from her throat, the faintest trace of laughter curling at the corner of her mouth. And under it all, the pulse of anticipation sang through her blood, a silver thread drawn taut, humming in her chest.
Her phone vibrated once more.
And this time, the name flashing on the screen wasn't Leo.
It was Mason.
The air seemed to shift, cold drawing closer, sharp against her skin. For a single, suspended breath, the world held still, the hush curling around her like a question not yet asked.