Yesterday, 12:56 AM
The air outside the estate was bracing, crisp enough to make Carter’s breath cloud in the dark. A few errant flakes of snow drifted through the lamplight, catching the glow like confetti from a more honest party. He adjusted his coat collar, spine still tall, posture composed. There was no security flanking him now, no staff ushering him into a car, just the echo of a night gone wrong. Or right, depending on how you looked at it.
Colette’s rejection wasn’t new to Carter, but tonight wasn’t that. Not truly. Because she had looked at him. Colette hadn’t touched him, hadn’t called him back. She hadn’t needed to. It was all there in the flick of her eyes, the way her voice faltered for half a breath, the way her hand brushed her gown as though suppressing the urge to reach. She had said no. But she had meant something else entirely.
Carter knew the difference. He told himself he’d already won the moment her mask slipped, even just a little. Even if she’d slammed the door afterward. Even if she’d done it in heels.
A soft rhythm of steps broke the stillness. Not the confident staccato of someone striding across a marble floor. This was slower, uneven. Measured out like someone managing pain. Cyrena Marveet emerged from the shadows, limping ever so slightly, a fur coat draped over her bare shoulders like a pelt taken from a richer kill. The dress beneath it still shimmered beneath the low exterior lighting, but her expression had dulled from its ballroom brightness. She didn’t look furious. She didn’t look amused. She looked done. She stopped beside him, barely glanced his way.
“If you need a ride,” she said, voice smooth but tired, “get in the car.”
The back door was already open behind her, interior warm and inviting. He glanced at it, then at her, then down at the mask still in his hand. There was no need for it anymore. He let it fall to the ground. No flourish. Just gravity. Then he stepped into the car, not speaking, not asking where they were going. Whatever the night had been, it wasn’t over yet. And technically, he and Colette weren’t anything at all.
Colette’s rejection wasn’t new to Carter, but tonight wasn’t that. Not truly. Because she had looked at him. Colette hadn’t touched him, hadn’t called him back. She hadn’t needed to. It was all there in the flick of her eyes, the way her voice faltered for half a breath, the way her hand brushed her gown as though suppressing the urge to reach. She had said no. But she had meant something else entirely.
Carter knew the difference. He told himself he’d already won the moment her mask slipped, even just a little. Even if she’d slammed the door afterward. Even if she’d done it in heels.
A soft rhythm of steps broke the stillness. Not the confident staccato of someone striding across a marble floor. This was slower, uneven. Measured out like someone managing pain. Cyrena Marveet emerged from the shadows, limping ever so slightly, a fur coat draped over her bare shoulders like a pelt taken from a richer kill. The dress beneath it still shimmered beneath the low exterior lighting, but her expression had dulled from its ballroom brightness. She didn’t look furious. She didn’t look amused. She looked done. She stopped beside him, barely glanced his way.
“If you need a ride,” she said, voice smooth but tired, “get in the car.”
The back door was already open behind her, interior warm and inviting. He glanced at it, then at her, then down at the mask still in his hand. There was no need for it anymore. He let it fall to the ground. No flourish. Just gravity. Then he stepped into the car, not speaking, not asking where they were going. Whatever the night had been, it wasn’t over yet. And technically, he and Colette weren’t anything at all.