Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Jaxen Marveet]

Cyrena Marveet

Cyrena held her expression in place like a mask carved from marble. Pristine, polished, and utterly still. Inside, her thoughts seethed like a nest of wasps. The Vasilev girl had played her hand with precision, and worse, she had landed her blow in front of an audience. A quiet dismissal masked as civility. A power play wrapped in pleasantries.

You smug little bitch.

But Cyrena didn’t rise to it. Not here. Not now.

She adjusted the fall of her dress with a graceful flick of her hand and offered Sofia a measured smile. Cool and false and just sharp enough at the edges to hint that she wouldn’t forget this.

"How very gracious," she said, her tone velvet-smooth, yet her eyes glittered with contained fire. "Your hospitality leaves such a lasting impression."

The pain bloomed slowly, like a snake sliding out of the grass: familiar, almost welcome at first. She had faked it earlier for the sake of Zixin's hands, his attention, that heavy-lidded gaze of his she wanted to claim before someone else did. But now… it burned. It ached. Every nerve in her foot sang with dull, rhythmic cruelty. And Sofia had looked her in the eye when she mentioned it.

Cyrena smiled.

That was the first defense. Always.

Smiling was armor. Elegant, silent, unbreakable. Let them see pearls where there were teeth. Let them think they’d drawn blood... until they realized it wasn’t hers.

But this time, something had been taken. And it wasn’t just face or pride.

It was her ankle.

That bitch had done something.

And Cyrena didn’t know how.

Not yet.

But she would.

Still, she couldn’t betray the pain. That was the second defense. Never give them what they want.

“My dear Sofia,” Cyrena said, tone buttered silk. “Only you could manage concern and condescension with such charm. It’s truly a gift.”

Her eyes glittered like cut emeralds, bright, dangerous, and sharp enough to slice. She took a slow sip of champagne and carefully shifted her weight to her good leg, hiding the grimace behind the cool press of the glass to her lips.

“I assure you,” she continued, “the only injury here is to Moscow’s collective taste in dance partners. Carter Volthström? Honestly.” She forced a soft laugh, nearly convincing even herself.

But she was bleeding inside. Not metaphorically. Something wrong throbbed through her ankle like a bruised drumbeat, and it wasn’t going away. Whatever Sofia had done, and Cyrena didn’t need the specifics to know it had been Sofia, it was precise. Elegant. Fucking humiliating.

The Vasilev witch had turned her bluff into reality, and smiled while doing it. And Cyrena could do nothing except stand there and pretend she wasn’t in agony. Pretend she hadn’t been outplayed.

For now.

She pivoted slightly... slowly... just enough to start her retreat. She was halfway through calculating her exit when Zixin arrived.

“Ladies,” he said, that voice of his like crushed velvet. He came from nowhere and filled the space with presence, sharp suit and sharper jaw. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Cyrena looked up, already masking the pain again. Fuck but he was a beautiful man. Dangerous, too—but she had a weakness for men like that.

“On the contrary,” she purred. “You’re rescuing me. A timely habit you’re developing.”

He turned on her, took her in with slow appreciation… but not admiration. No, something colder than that. Calculating. Interested. Like she was a puzzle with just enough missing pieces to make her worth solving, or maybe shelving.

“You’re limping,” he said.

Cyrena’s smile didn’t flinch. “It’s nothing.”

He didn’t believe her. But he didn’t push. Just held her gaze for a moment longer, and what she saw there wasn’t desire. It was potential. Use.

She was tainted now. In a way that Sofia wasn’t. In a way Zixin might be able to use. And Cyrena saw it land in his mind like a stone dropping into a still lake. He turned to Sofia next.

And changed.

Subtle, but it was there: posture, pitch, attention. The shift from interested to intrigued.

“Miss Vasilev,” he said, bowing slightly, extending a hand. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Cyrena watched it happen. Saw him make his choice.

And it stung more than the ankle. But she wasn’t foolish enough to linger.

“Careful,” she said, tone light and low, like the warning flick of a knife before the cut. “She might step on your toes. I think we’ve all had enough limping for one night.”

She let the words linger like perfume, turned, and began to walk away. Slowly, evenly, masking the limp as best she could. Every step hurt. Every step cost. But she didn’t look back.

Let them think she was done.

She would let the pain become a lesson. Let the humiliation become fuel. Because if Sofia wanted war, Cyrena would burn slow. And make sure the ashes were worth something.

The pain flared again as she stepped through the outer corridor—white-hot, like her ankle was cracking from the inside out—but Cyrena didn’t break stride. The cold outside air would help. And anyway, she'd already given enough tonight. The show was over.

She spotted Tarik near the coatroom, leaning against the wall like a man trying not to look out of place and succeeding only because he didn’t care if he did. His suit was expensive but rumpled at the edges, and he held a drink like it was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.

“Tarik,” she said as she approached, her tone clipped but not unkind.

He looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “Wasn’t feeling well, and I’ve had about as much glitter and judgment as I can stomach for one evening.”

She didn’t wait for him to protest, didn’t offer explanation beyond that. They both knew how these nights worked. Sometimes you left early because you were bored, and sometimes you left because the knives had come too close to your skin.

This had been both.

Tarik gave a small nod, his eyes searching her face. There was no pity in him, just a strange kind of recognition. He knew her better than anyone, enough to know something had happened, maybe not what, but enough to read the cracks beneath the polish. Good. Let him wonder.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she added, softer. Then, after a beat: “Or if you do, don’t get caught.”

She left him with a faint smile, one he didn’t return.

Outside, the cold bit through the pelts of her fur coat like punishment. A few photographers still lingered beyond the velvet barriers, hoping for one last scandal, one final flash of fame. She ignored them, shoulders square, jaw tight, heels clicking too sharply on the stone.

Her driver wasn’t visible yet, so she stepped further into the drive, pulling her coat around her.

And that’s when she saw him.

Carter Volthström, expelled and humiliated, standing alone just beyond the edge of the light. The gods really did have a sense of timing.

Cyrena paused, looking him over once; brief, clinical. The collar of his coat was turned up, his jaw set like someone chewing down every insult they’d ever heard. He looked furious. He looked wrecked.

He looked… useful.

She limped toward him.

“I’m leaving,” she said when she reached him, voice even, low, tired more than warm. “If you need a ride, get in the car.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned, favoring her good leg, and continued toward the waiting black vehicle as it finally pulled around the corner.

[Maksim Marveet]

Tarik & Maksim

Tarik had known Cyrena would fold first.

She was a snake, sure, but slow—bloated from gorging on bottom-feeders and too sluggish to strike before someone stepped on her neck. There was venom, maybe, but it washed off quick. Her limp wasn’t dramatic—just a whisper of imbalance—but he caught it, that hitch in her step in those red-bottomed stilettos. A private little victory. He smirked and let it sit.

Back inside, the ballroom was the same stew of lacquered puff-ups and desperate leeches, all frothing at the mouth to tongue each other’s egos. A mess of silk and ambition, dripping of each other’s cum, a live-action circlejerk with better lighting.

It took a moment to spot his brother—short little shit that he was—but where Alina glowed, Maksim was sure to be buzzing nearby, orbiting like a fruit fly drunk on perfume and attention.

Tarik slid in with a grin sharp enough to slice through silk. “Mind if I borrow the prince for a little brotherly bonding, Alina?”

Alina offered the kind of smile that said she’d love to see him thrown off a balcony, but she gave her nod and stepped aside.
Maksim turned with a smirk, eyes glittering behind a stupid baroque mask. “I love it when you call me that, teacup.”

“You look like a fucking pirate.” Tarik snapped at his mask as he drew them away. “And not even a cool one. Like, the knock-off brand that dies in the first five minutes.”

The crowd shifted around them, soft music and murmured politics, but only once they were half-sheltered from the noise did Tarik lower his voice.

Across the ballroom, Scion held court, surrounded by preening little peacocks all flapping their feathers in the hope of catching their father’s attention. The old man barely acknowledged them—his eyes stayed fixed on Jessika Thrice, whose laughter rang like a bell dipped in poison.

“So,” Tarik said, clicking his tongue, “do you know what’s going on with Dad?”

Maksim followed his line of sight, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on with Dad?”

Playing dumb. Always his first move. Or maybe he was that dumb.

“You know what I mean,” Tarik murmured. “He finally got the crown jewel. Took him what—ten years? Longer? He’s going to have to scale back at the company.”

Maksim puffed air through his nose, then scoffed. “That’s not Dad. He’ll clone himself and have the new version stomping around Moscow like some pissed-up King Kong. Pissing on the Kremmy. Building piss statues of himself pissing on the Kremmy.”

Tarik barked a laugh. “Sounds like the real one already.” But then he leaned in, lower. “Still. He’s old. He’s slower. And Privilege? It’s big. And the minute he comes up for air, someone’s going to make a move.”

“And you think that someone’s gonna be you?” Maksim asked, but his tone wasn’t challenging—it was curious.

“I think it shouldn’t be a stranger,” Tarik replied. “I think if you hear anything... we don’t waste the opening.”

Maksim didn’t respond right away. He was watching their father, the way Jessika was leaning in, eyes bright with attention. Fake laughing. At his joke.

Their father wasn’t funny.

“You think she’s, you know...” Maksim asked under his breath.

Tarik turned to him, deadpan. “Boning him?”

Maksim cringed. “I mean, he’s got Vena. Why would—”

Tarik cut in, voice low but oily. “You mean why would he go for a younger blonde with ambition, tits and her own growing power base? Why would he ditch the loyal girlfriend for a bitch that’s younger, wetter, hungrier?”

Maksim made a face like he was about to gag, but it was for show. “Classy, Tarik.”

“You’re just mad I said it first,” Tarik muttered, eyes lingering on Jessika. “But come on, —wouldn’t you?”

Maksim gave a small shake of the head, feigning disgust. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Tarik said, smirking. “I forgot, you’re too busy fucking dad all up and down to remember to get a side-piece.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just watched the old man hold court. Watched the blonde hang on his every word. Watched the power shifting across the floor like gravity changing direction.

[Adrian Kane]

Adrian exchanged small talk with dozens of people over the course of the evening, each interaction a choreography he danced through with ease. People were more willing to let him into the conversational fold after his chat with the Ascendancy—as if proximity to Brandon gave him a golden glow. If only the bastards knew. Every handshake, every compliment, more souls for his nighttime buffet of mind-fuckery. In time, he would find them all. A silent army just waiting to be assembled.

He tried circling Scion’s orbit more than once, but the old whale kept pivoting away. Probably unintentional—Scion didn’t seem smart enough to be strategic—but it was starting to piss Adrian off. Every step forward turned into a slow shuffle sideways.

Instead, he caught Jessika Thrice’s gaze.

She looked at him curiously, that kind of smile women used when they weren’t sure if you were interesting or in the way. For a moment, he thought she might cross the room. He wouldn’t have kicked her in the ankle, but he had no desire to breathe the same air. Yasmine had warned him: delusional beauty queen, only now she had a title and a spotlight. Dangerous in the same way a knife made of glass is: flashy, brittle, liable to break and still leave a wound.

Adrian turned away before she could act on whatever idea had flitted through her vacant head. Feigning a need for the men’s lounge, he excused himself from polite conversation. Still, he could feel her watching him. Burning holes in his back like a cheap laser pointer.

When he stepped back out, she was there. Like she’d been waiting. She intercepted him as he stepped back into the flow of the party.

“My people tell me you’re Adrian Kane,” she said. She was all teeth and lipstick. A scent that was ninety percent ambition, ten percent florals.

He blinked slowly, let the silence stretch. Letting his presence seep into overwhelming her. “You have people now? Look at how important you are.”

Her smile wavered. Not much. But enough.

“It’s a great party,” she offered, a little reset of tone. “Are you close with the Vasilevs?”

“I love a party,” Adrian said, all confidence and no joy. “But no, I don’t know them at all.”

“I’d be happy to introduce you.”

“I’m good, thanks. Though clearly your people are decently connected if you’re already so close to the family after only being introduced this evening. It’s impressive for as new as they and you are to the city.”

“This is a city like any other,” she said with a shrug.

He gave her a slow, sideways glance. “Not quite. Look who’s in the room.”

“I’m aware,” she said. “When you’re Privileged by the Ascendancy, you tend to know people. And I am the room now.”

Adrian cocked his head, amused. “You’re the room? Sure. Beautiful room. Full of beautiful people, including yourself, but you have people telling you who is in the room. Of course that’s understandable and you’ll need time to learn the people. Maybe I can help you out there.”

She gave him a look like she’d found gum under her shoe. “Oh, I doubt that. You don’t even know the Vasilevs, and it seems I’m the only one who has actually seen you. Maybe I’m the only one who can. Are you even here? It’s like you’re a ghost wandering around yearning to be part of the living.”

He laughed. Genuinely, this time. “Here’s the thing about ghosts. They tend to give people nightmares. But surely you don’t scare easy. Not with your privileged status.”

They both smiled. Sharp. Empty.

“Nothing scares me,” she said, sipping her drink. “Nothing at all.”

Adrian almost took that as a personal challenge. “Do you sleep well, then?”

“Like a baby.”

“Already itching for your next leap? The ceiling gets real close, real fast. Not much above the Sphere unless you’re planning to float.”

She didn’t answer, but her glance drifted, just a flick of the eyes—toward the figure at the top of the power pile. The kind of glance that told him everything.

“Ah,” Adrian murmured, more to himself than to her. “I see. Beautiful room, beautiful people, and you fit right in. I’m sure plenty of people have noticed. But has the only one who matters?”

She swayed slightly, let the silence settle, then took a long sip from her glass. The look she gave him wasn’t an answer—it was confirmation. “He will.”

Interesting he mused.




((Jessika written by me))

[Lore]

Her success remembering Carter’s name was woefully short-lived. She presumed it was success anyway; they never got so far into the conversation as confirmation, but Lore was rarely wrong. Either way the beam of her smile slipped away, replaced by confusion once it seemed the imminent approach of two men was to in fact escort Carter out. Admittedly there hadn’t been any Volthströms on the guestlist Lore had memorised, but it wasn’t like he didn’t fit in with the wealth, power and elitism of the general scenery. Hence the confusion.

If there was something you were supposed to do or say in such a situation Lore had no idea what it might be, but behind her simple mask her eyes were bright with sympathy. He made no fuss, and no one glanced at her much at all, so she only moved to stay out of the way. Belatedly she considered that maybe she should have moved away entirely, since most people preferred not to have any witness to an embarrassing situation. But it was too late now, and anyway, he had probably assumed she was Jessika’s PA. He was unlikely to remember her face.

Afterwards she was once again alone in the middle of a party she’d really rather have missed. Though on the plus side, the pillar upon which Carter had been leaning really was a good place for watching the floor.

[Sofia Vasilieva]

Cyrena showed not an ounce of discomfort, let alone pain. Sofia’s lips were pressed into a faint smile, the cat-like roam of her gaze more than content with the subtle show. Because it was costing her greatly, that mask of indifference, and Sofia enjoyed the stretch of every single second the other woman fought to endure and maintain her dignity. She felt no shame for her cruelty. It had been foolish of Cyrena to associate with Colette’s ex. Even more foolish to try and claim the man who came here on Sofia’s arm. Though it wasn’t quite jealousy that spurred her; frankly Zixin did nothing to earn that from her. It was about power.

“Your tongue is viperous, darling.” Sofia’s laugh chimed like bells, amused but ultimately dismissive. Her tone suggested a condescending forgiveness.

She knew she had won. It was a sweet victory, but she had more to accomplish tonight than putting Scion’s slutty daughter in her place, so when Cyrena shifted to negotiate her exit Sofia was prepared to let her make her shameful retreat. It would stay with Cyrena for far longer than Sofia would deign to linger on it.

Instead her gaze flattened into calculation as Zixin made his timely interruption. She might be prepared to punish those who tried to turn his eye tonight, but it didn’t make him any less culpable in the offence. Sofia cared about the optics, perhaps more than she cared about the truth, and Zixin made a poor mistake fluttering around Thrice in a ballroom full of Moscow’s most influential. Fortunately for him, undermining him was not part of the reason she had invited him tonight – which did not mean she did not at least picture the satisfaction of rejecting him then.

She wasn’t remotely surprised at the choice he made, and if he offered himself up like a prize, she was prepared to accept only because it suited her. So she took his hand, let him control their entrance to the dancefloor.

“I only crush with intention,” she corrected in afterthought to him after Cyrena sloped off. The threat was tame; factual. The glitter in her eyes was as hard as the diamonds of her mask. She absolutely could and would crush Zixin if he gave her reason to, but that had never been in doubt for either of them since the night on the bridge. Cruelty softened her expression into self-satisfaction. “She would know.”