A Little Chat [Vasiliev Party]

[Nesrin Aziz]

The evening passed, and she kept a low profile; her usual proclivity. Neither was she idle. There were other seeds to begin planting tonight, and interactions to observe. She was amused to witness the Vasilievs had invited a wolf among them: the Syndicate leader Zixin Kao. Playing both sides as he did was a dangerous game, but Nesrin had a soft spot for the audacity.

She preferred serving in the game rooms, which offered privacy away from the music and dancing, and where ignorance was joined by loose lips. No one much noticed the servers weaving like ghosts among them so long as the drinks remained flowing. Between her shifts attending the various guests, visits to the kitchens provided a predictable and steady font for gossip. She pieced together who the English gentleman must have been because of the rumours surrounding the New York socialite in the beautiful dress, though Nesrin was more curious about her reasons for being in Moscow than the puppy trailing in her wake. In other circumstances she might have tugged on the threads of that drama, just because he’d been rude. As it was, she didn’t look for him again.

She did keep half a discrete eye on Brandon, more to watch him in his environment than anything else. To see who commandeered his time, who avoided his attention, and who watched him in turn.

And when the time came, for once Nesrin did exactly as she was told.

The suite she was directed to was extravagant, restored to what she presumed was its gaudy mid-18th century glory. When the door closed softly behind her she resisted the instinct to search out the available exits, though she doubted there were cameras watching her movements – not with the sort of privacy implied in a bedroom. She considered the frilly, canopied bed with half a raised brow and a silent smirk. Funnelling her into this room had been such a smooth and discrete operation she presumed it wasn’t an unusual request for Brandon’s people to accommodate. She wondered if he did this often; if it’s what her mother had been, an appetite of a moment, soon forgotten.

Though if that was the case, how many children might he really have? And why were none of them known?

Nerves itched her skin; a wary discomfort, for she did not like the sense of being at another’s mercy, even if it was necessary now. She banished the urge to pace the polished floors and instead found a chair in which to sit.

[[Occurs at some point during the Vasiliev ball. Continued from this post]]

[Ascendancy]

Nikolai's curiosity was piqued. Over the years, many had tried to leverage his name for their own gain, spinning tales of blood relations in hopes of securing his favor or fortune. He had learned to dismiss such claims with a practiced indifference, eventually delegating the screening tasks to trusted staffers. But this girl, a waitress, had presented something the others had not: evidence. The kind that could not be created easily.

As he reached the door to the suite, he paused, contemplating. Children. The concept was almost abstract to him, a distant consequence of transient liaisons. He had always taken precautions, but if one was to exist, he had no inclination to seek them out, nor had he felt any paternal longing. His life was devoted to the Custody, to the empire he had built and maintained. Personal attachments were weaknesses, distractions. Yet, here he was, about to confront a possibility he had never seriously entertained.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the atmospheric room. The suite was as extravagant as any other, adorned with relics of a bygone era that he’d seen a million times. He found her seated in a chair, a picture of composed nervousness, or so he assumed. Her gaze met his, and for a moment, he simply observed her, measuring the weight of this encounter. Wondering.

“Well, you’re certainly as pretty as your mother,” he greeted, his voice a smooth baritone, carrying the authority of his position mixed with the sort of charm that won him that power. He moved further into the room, placing the previously removed mask on a nearby table. The gesture felt symbolic, shedding the pretense of the masquerade for the raw truth of their impending conversation.

“Do you have any proof?” he continued, his tone neither warm nor cold, but mixed with skepticism as much as intrigue. He remained standing, a deliberate choice to maintain a semblance of control and distance. He had no emotional investment in the prospect of fatherhood, no guilt over a life left unacknowledged. But the evidence she seemed to have – that was something he could not ignore.

[Nesrin Aziz]

She wasn’t absolutely certain the Ascendancy would come, at least not in person, until he did. Any anxiety she’d felt at the wait began to ease in the silent moments before he spoke, replaced instead by the promised rush of a plan coalescing in the right way. He remained standing like he did not intend to stay, yet he would not be here at all if he could not credit the accusation with possibility. It was the only hook she needed, whatever happened next. Though any smiling she did at the prospect was purely on the inside.

His first words to her actually cut with a surprising and unexpected sharpness. Nesrin’s mother was a myth, an abstraction, and something she had held singularly close for most of her life. Growing up, Mari Aziz had only ever been mentioned in tones of warning, and young Nesrin had naturally filled in the absent details with the sort of mother she’d needed back then. But he’d known her, the living breathing person that old photograph had once been. Nesrin never had – nor ever would – and it fluttered resentment amidst more fragile emotion, the casual way in which he was able to make the observation and offer it out as a gift. She’d never had to share her mother’s memory with anyone, nor confront her own childish fictionalisation of who the woman might have been. For the first time she realised how jealousy she guarded it, that piece of her, but also how much she wanted to hear what he remembered.

A dangerous power, and one she did not much like that he had over her.

“I see little of you in my features,” she agreed. Her head tilted a little, perhaps rueful, though she seemed unperturbed by the point she presumed to be lurking beneath the compliment. It was a fair one, and indisputable; they looked little alike. Despite the scrutiny, she appeared to have no difficulty in meeting his gaze. Her hands rested in her lap, and she did not quell the small signs of nerves – only a fool would feel nothing, and Nesrin hid best in plain sight.

To the question she shook her head. Identity could be forged – Nesrin herself knew something about just how easily. There was only one definitive evidence he would believe no matter what she offered, and likely only once administered in his own labs; anything less would only present as trickery – an air of manipulation she was keen to avoid. She did not even lean into her power to add honey to her words (would he sense if she did?). Her own trust was built entirely on the Asquith’s investment in her. They believed in her parentage enough to puppet her future, and it was on that belief she took the risk of using the knowledge to her own ends first. Though to what result… well, she supposed she was about to find out.

Truthfully his pleasant formality gave little indication of how he might welcome or reject the idea of a child. Though he sounded curious, and attended in person when he might easily have sent his people, he could easily dismiss her without ever seeking the truth – might only be enquiring to see if she had any evidence that would make denial difficult for him. Whoever her mother had truly been, her life had already been long buried. Rejection, even that of convenience, was a possibility Nesrin was prepared for. But if such were the case, she would not stay buried. “It still doesn’t seem believable to me either, if I’m honest. I was not even born inside the Custody.” She tested to see if there was any emotion to exploit, though it was not entirely artifice. For the Ascendancy’s offspring to have been lost beyond the power of his empire was unthinkable – a point of pride if not of feeling – and a snippet she dropped casually to see if it left any ripples. Neither was Nesrin without emotion herself; revealed when she posed the only question she would regret not asking now that she had the chance. “What was she like?”

[Ascendancy]

Nikolai’s gaze remained steady as he observed Nesrin. The cool detachment he maintained in these encounters was a shield, one honed over years of dealing with impostors, manipulators, and those seeking to exploit his power. Yet, as she spoke, a flicker of something deeper stirred within him—an echo of memories long buried beneath the weight of his responsibilities.

Her initial words brought a faint, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. “I see none of me in you. Except perhaps how you orchestrated this meeting. How did you manage it?”

The question hung in the air, laced with genuine curiosity and perhaps a hint of pride. She had managed to navigate through layers of security and protocol to reach him directly—a feat not easily accomplished. It spoke of resourcefulness, intelligence, and perhaps a touch of audacity. Traits he could admire.

Nikolai took a step closer, his expression contemplative. If she did not know the identity of your father, how would she even know where she were born? For nothing can be trusted when one hasn’t witnessed it with their own eyes.

As he studied, his mind wandered to the past. He had traveled across the globe, systematically scooping up nations and expanding his campaign. Mariam, her presence now a shadow in his memory, had been a fleeting part of that journey, but obviously memorable. She had left, slipping away from his entourage with plans he had once known but had since forgotten. The world was vast, and her path could have led anywhere.

For a moment, he allowed himself to recall her—Mariam—rather than Mari. She had been more than just a name, more than just a face in a photograph. Their time together had been brief, intense, and ultimately inconsequential in the grand scheme of his life. Yet, here was her daughter, a potential link to that past, standing before him with a claim that could unravel decades of certainty.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her, searching for any telltale signs of deceit or manipulation. But she seemed genuine, her nerves barely concealed beneath a veneer of calm. Whether she truly believed her own story or was simply an exceptional actress remained to be seen. He would know the truth soon enough.

Nikolai moved to a nearby chair, sitting down with a deliberate grace. The gesture was both an invitation and a signal that he intended to stay, to delve deeper into this mystery. “What was she like?” he replied, his tone quieter now, almost reflective, and in that question a sort of recognition settled. A daughter who did not know her mother. Death had since come for Mariam, and in a way, it made him sad. 

The question held a dual purpose. It was a test of her knowledge, of course, but also an attempt to bridge the chasm of years with a sliver of shared memory. Mariam had been a part of his life, however briefly, and her memory deserved more than the cold detachment he often reserved for such matters. “Smart, certainly, and funny.” He recalled the chess games and the banter of flirtatious losing.

“I don't recall her going as Mari; I knew her as Mariam. But what is your name?”

[Nesrin Aziz]

The compliment, and that’s how she took it, prompted the shadow of her own smile. She was surprised at the glow recognition left inside. Nesrin was accustomed to being unseen; excelled at it. Such self-reliance never paused to consider the opinions of others, and she’d certainly never had parents to make proud. Even Balthazar did not know her true nature, for all that he might assume they were close. Nor did Nesrin desire that kind of connection, familial or otherwise. Yet neither could she say it left her unmoved.

“I’ve learned to be resourceful,” she admitted. She did not choose to say it with humility, or apology. The confidence was well earned for all her unassuming manner. Whatever he might come to make of her past – presuming it was something he even ever learned – Nesrin only saw it as the fires from which she had been forged. Perhaps she would have shared more if she’d imagined it might leverage a useful sympathy. Possibly it would only cast aspersions though. For now his curiosity was more to her benefit. “And it was the only way for me to get answers.”

He finally sat. Nesrin felt some relief, though she wished she knew if it was out of respect for her mother’s memory or if it spoke something of his intentions. It didn’t seem he had known about her existence, but he clearly had reason enough to believe it possible. In his poise and thoughtful expression he gave precious little away, and she was accustomed to being able to more easily read people. Was he simply placating the feelings of an orphan, the same way he might kiss a baby to charm the cameras? Or did his presence reveal a knot of obligation she might pull tighter and to her own ends? That he met with her at all was enough to spin to her advantage in the circles Nesrin ran. Rumour was powerful. More powerful than truth a lot of the time. She had what she needed – enough to frame a useful narrative. So why did she still feel tendrils of anxiety?

For a brief moment she considered what she wanted from this, but no clear answer was forthcoming when it involved emotions she’d rather not dwell on. She knew what the Asquiths wanted her to do, of course, but Nesrin’s loyalties were not so easily won. She used them as much as they used her. And now she was here, it was solely for herself.

When he answered, a little interested hope stirred in her expression, albeit tempered quickly. She swallowed the disappointment down. The words were generic, for all that he shared them thoughtfully. Her heart ached for how little it told her, and she put a cage around the emotion. It wasn’t like she had expected to learn their liaison had been anything more than ephemera – the ease with which his people had swept her into this private room in the middle of a very large party spoke for itself really. Which meant he was probably being kind to the girl with a dead mother.

“I never knew her, only of her; she died when I was a baby. I’m sorry if you didn’t know that. Lots of people died in the earthquakes that year – I grew up in Cairo.” Her gaze had taken a break from his, unwilling to share the crests of emotion within. Mariam. She didn’t miss her mother – there was nothing to miss – but she was a talisman Nesrin had gripped fiercely at many terrifying points in her life. It wasn’t sadness she felt in reflection, but it was certainly a kind of grief. If he chose, there would be plenty of time to shade in the story of her life. But until she could read him better, she was cautious of committing herself to what kind of daughter she would ultimately prefer he perceived of her. At least he showed interest. She just couldn’t decide if it was perfunctory.

“My name is Nesrin,” she told him, glad he chose to ask. She took a breath, as though she had intended to ask more, but stopped herself on the cusp. She bit her lip, and then schooled herself to patience, though clearly the curiosity continued to burn. He acknowledged the ingenuity that had engineered their meeting, and if her competency was the hook to bait him she would certainly make use of it. But for now it was important he felt like he retained control. He wasn’t a man to be led by emotion, and she wagered nothing she could say to forge a connection would have proper impact until he knew the truth of their blood. A truth she couldn’t actually be sure about, but the odds felt favourable; it was a risk she was content to take in the circumstance. “You have my consent for any test that is needed. Perhaps it is better if we first know the truth.” Though would he want to know? She still wasn’t sure, and it showed honestly. “What will happen next?”

[Ascendancy]

She was resourceful, he agreed, and either fearless or foolish to take such a risk. There must have been many careful steps between an idea and donning the uniform of a waitress, and each one likely flaunted legality at best and her life at worst. Not a single person on his staff nor security suspected the demure waitress was any more than a passing dalliance to him, and he intended to keep it that way regardless of the outcome.

He was already planning ahead while she spoke, filtering through names in his mind to whom he would trust such a task. It would need to be kept quiet, calm, with as little detail as possible provided to the investigator. The testing would need to be conducted on their own secure networks, he was sure, which left him with the perfect candidate. She cared next to nothing about politics and power, not unless it was to flex it within her own laboratory walls, and she had already proven her discretion multiple times over.

Although distracted by plans, a hint crossed the threshold of his thoughts, plucking his attention quite firmly back to the present moment. “Mariam is dead?” he asked, the surprise not withheld from the question. Her affirmation whiplashed his thoughts to the distant past; earthquakes and worse. “Yes, tragic,” he agreed with the sound of one accustomed to rote messaging long played out.

Providing her name cemented the potential in his mind. He would find out, either way. Though he could not anticipate his response to either outcome, there was no point dwelling on it until the truth was known. He stood, gauging the way she moved, seeking any semblance of familiarity in her motions. “What happens next is someone will be in touch; after that is up to fate.”

He studied her a moment longer, as though it may be the last time, and paused at the door. "If I don't see you again, Nesrin, best of luck with the... waitressing," he said, hinting at their shared understanding, then departed.

[Nesrin Aziz]

Nesrin stood when he did, though she did not move to follow. Her fingers laced neatly; she might well have been the waitress she professed to be, though his tone suggested he doubted the simplicity. Her background didn’t speak otherwise: on paper, Nesrin really was what she appeared.

His departure from the suite came with some relief, for whatever Nesrin’s unflappable confidence in her art, the man literally radiated intensity. And he’d been difficult to read; a blend of charm and control and inner deliberation practically impenetrable. She privately scoffed at the idea of fate – she certainly wouldn’t be careless with the opportunity. And she wouldn’t be beholden on the Custody for the truth. Which meant she’d need to begin planning a cash injection to her coffers, and a proposition for m'Antinomian.