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.