Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Carter de Volthström]

There was little in this world that could truly distract Carter from watching Colette—especially her departure. But the presence of Ascendancy Brandon, of all people, managed to pull his attention. Carter generally found politics tiresome, a bloated theater of self-important men and women clamoring for control, though he made sure to keep just enough awareness to impress his contemporaries when conversation required it. Knowledge of the game was essential, even if playing it himself felt distasteful. But tonight was different, and for a moment, Carter allowed his curiosity to overtake him, watching the Ascendancy with cool detachment as Brandon spoke.

For a few minutes, Carter allowed himself to indulge in this mild diversion. But his focus shifted back as soon as he spotted Colette through the crowd. The sight of her, masked and elegant, brought a quiet tightness to his chest. She had been speaking with someone—whispering, in fact—her lips barely moving beneath the curve of her mask. The sight unsettled him, though he could hardly say why.

Colette had no business mingling with politicians. She was better than that. Her grace, her intelligence, her refinement—those things set her apart. She wasn’t like the rest of these people, hungry for power or validation. Or at least, she shouldn’t have been. And yet, here she was, whispering with the woman in red.

Carter’s frown deepened as he pieced together what little he’d learned so far. Guillaume had been irritatingly secretive about whose event they were attending, leaving Carter to scramble for context upon arrival. It hadn’t taken him long to connect the dots. The Vasilevs, of course. The family’s reputation preceded them, though Carter hadn’t bothered to familiarize himself with all the players since he never intended to stay in Moscow long enough to make the effort worth his while. He preferred precision in his knowledge, not overloading his mind with irrelevant details. Still, the woman in red was clearly a relation—likely a daughter—and her presence loomed larger than he’d anticipated. He didn’t like the way Colette deferred to her, lingering at her side like a shadow. Now whispers between them? He liked that even less.

Carter’s jaw tightened briefly, though he quickly composed himself. This wasn’t the time to act rashly, especially not here. Still, the discontent settled in the pit of his stomach, and he turned away before his thoughts betrayed him further.

His distraction didn’t last long. A woman approached him then, her movement catching his eye. She glided toward him like a ribbon on a breeze—graceful, quiet, and enigmatic. Her dress shimmered faintly under the lights, and though her mask concealed her eyes, her interest was apparent, lingering on him just a moment too long.

He offered her a polite nod, his posture relaxed but measured. He didn’t recognize her, though something about her presence suggested she might recognize him. That possibility tugged at his pride just enough to make him curious. Was she admiring him? Or had her knowledge of him preceded her arrival? Either way, Carter wasn’t one to let such things go unaddressed.

“You must work for the Privilege?” he asked smoothly, his voice low enough to avoid drawing attention from the surrounding crowd. The last thing he wanted was to stand out too much, not when blending in offered so much more freedom.

[Noémi Jourdain]

Noémi smiled politely when Kristian welcomed her into his company, inwardly relieved. There was nothing he could do for her of course, and she courteously demurred answering that question. She would not wish to risk marking him as a target for Dmirtri’s jealousy by being overfamiliar either, especially not since he offered unknowing kindness. “Rafael left for air some time ago. I do not see him now, so I think he may have gone home. He did not seem well in himself. But I cannot leave quite yet.”

She didn’t say why, and she would not stop Kristian leaving in search of Jensen. Noémi held herself with grace, but the look she gave him was grateful. “I’m sorry you are suffering, Kristian. Do you get them often?”

[Colette Moreau]

Colette chose to feign ignorance of her companion’s discomfort, though the porcelain mask of Sofia’s expression gave her pause. There was a sharpness in Sofia’s gaze, a tension in her posture that felt as brittle as glass and one wrong move might shatter it. Colette had no interest in provoking that. Instead, she kept her focus on the room..

She wasn’t naïve to opulence—she had been raised among one of the last obscenely wealthy families of New York, after all—but even she had to admit the Custody’s elite had elevated extravagance to an art form. The glittering chandeliers, the ocean of gowns and tuxedos, the undercurrent of power threading through every conversation—it felt like home, in a way that made her both awed and wary.

But Sofia’s sudden question broke the spell. It was spoken softly, gently, yet it sliced through Colette’s composure like a blade. She hesitated, unsure whether to answer or evade. Her chest tightened with the instinct to deflect, but the pull of the question—of him—was magnetic. Against her better judgment, her gaze drifted toward Carter. 

And there he was. 

Damn him.

He stood just across the room, impossibly poised, his tuxedo sculpted to his tall, lean frame as if it had been designed for no one else. His posture was effortless, his presence drawing her in without even trying. Colette hated how her eyes lingered on him, tracing the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the slight curl of his lips as he spoke to someone. He looked perfect. He always looked perfect. It infuriated her.

And yet… 

A memory slid, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind. Her fingers on his chest, tugging impatiently at his shirt. The taut lines of his abs beneath her palms, his skin hot to the touch. The way his mouth moved against skin, devouring her in that way that had always left her trembling, breathless, and completely undone. 

Her cheeks warmed, and her pulse betrayed her, quickening despite her best efforts to quell it. She clenched her jaw, irritated—not at him, but at herself.

She snapped herself out of the memory, painfully aware that Sofia was waiting for an answer. Her companion’s gaze hadn’t wavered, and the weight of it was unbearable. There was no escaping the moment now. 

Colette leaned in slightly, her voice dropping as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Sofia.” The words tumbled out too quickly, too earnestly, betraying her very rare flustered state. She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t stop. “That’s Carter Volthström,” she continued, her voice hushed but tinged with frustration. “My ex.” She glanced toward him again—why couldn’t she stop looking?—then added, with a touch of exasperation, “And I guess he followed me here.” 

The last word came out with a sharpness she didn’t intend, and she immediately regretted it. It wasn’t entirely fair, but then again, Carter never played fair either. Not with her, not with anyone. He was like a storm—chaotic, beautiful, impossible to ignore, and even harder to escape.

[Lore]

So her flawless plan did in fact turn out to have one quite serious flaw, and that was that he would actually notice her standing there and feel compelled to make conversation himself. Which was perfectly okay by Lore, she was not a timid woman. The problem was that he was an unexpected interloper at tonight's event, and therefore she had no prepared cues.

Because Lore was always the most prepared person in the room… except when things deviated from her expectations.

She was certain he was a Volthström but offhand she was unsure which one. She had a very good memory for detail and she didn't forget things, so it would only take her time, but old British bloodlines had not exactly factored into her preparatory reading so as to be fresh. These were actually the sorts of families that had once objected to her father purchasing Ashurst from its ancestral holders – the unwelcome blight of “new money.” Though technically they were descended from bankers themselves, once you were wealthy for long enough she supposed it no longer mattered.

There had been Volthströms studying at Oxford, which was why she was confident in her recognition – not that they had ever socialised in any of the same circles of course, and she had only been there a matter of months before she transferred to the States to escape Damien's shadow anyway. But add to that how Tobias Volthström was famously friendly with Patron Northbrook, and equally infamous for only having the one son so late in his life. Her mind was still clicking over for the name.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose so, in a way – though it depends on how we are defining work. That usually implies a contract and some financial compensation…” she mused. “Work with is probably more accurate.” Though even that implied political acumen and interest Lore lacked, so she still didn’t sound entirely convinced. The assumption was a little revelatory though. No wonder the eyes all rolled off her if the room thought she was just Jessika’s PA. Far from being offended, Lore was slightly relieved.

She in fact had her own interests in Moscow, but it was true she had been swept up in Damien’s tide once again in the meantime. She wasn't sure he had been pleased to see her in Mexico, any more than Lore had been pleased to be there. And Jessika in fact had a perfectly competent team around her, it’s just that Lore knew she would be so much more efficient…

Beneath the frame of his mask he had amazing eyes. She was content to appreciate these things because most people rarely noticed the observation, or not from her. She considered that he might be intending to send her to fetch a drink or deliver a message if he presumed she was staff. Truthfully she was unlikely to correct him if he did – in fact she would probably just do whatever he asked. Though perhaps even more embarrassingly he might be expecting her to convey a message from Jessika.

At something of a loss with what to say next, she was about to say something even she knew was unlikely to go down well – like admiring his choice of observatory pillar – when her brain finally clicked over that final time. She practically beamed. “It's Carter isn't it?” She offered a hand to shake. “I'm Lore.”

[Xander]

Noémi didn't take up his offer but that was okay. Whatever she was running from he'd help however he could and if right now it was just talking he could do it. He felt bad for her companion. He wished he could have done something more, maybe Jensen could have. But what was there to do and he didn't really understand what he saw.

Kristian didn't have migraines much but Xander he had them all the time. "Normally, it's fine. There are just a lot in this crowd. People who I can't unsee. I'll be fine. I just need a stiff drink, a good hot shower and a dark room." He chuckled. "I don't even know if Jensen could help. It's not like a normal thing."

[Jensen James]

Jensen stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers, their polite applause and murmured comments washing over him like white noise. The atmosphere in the grand hall felt both suffocating and surreal, a contradiction he could neither fight nor escape. Despite his recent, tenuous connection to Maksim, he had never quite understood why he was here. His presence felt purposeless, like a misplaced piece in someone else’s puzzle. But the moment Jessika entered, everything crystallized with sharp, almost painful clarity. 

He could barely process the applause that greeted her as she entered the room like a princess surveying her subjects. The sea of shoulders around him became a barricade, but it wasn’t just the crowd that kept him rooted in place. Even if his legs had the strength to move, his will had been stolen. He was frozen by the chasm of history that yawned between them.

Jessika had always been ambitious in serving others, but during their years together, years that now felt like another lifetime, she had never hinted at this. This was power on a scale he hadn’t imagined, and seeing her claim it so effortlessly, so publicly, felt like being struck by a bolt of lightning. He could still hear her laugh in his memory, the way she’d once confided in him late at night, her voice warm and close, like they were the only two people in the world. Now that voice spoke to the whole world, and it wasn’t warm and playful. It was cold steel.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, grateful for the anonymity of his mask. His breathing was shallow, and he pressed a palm against his stomach as though to steady the whirlwind within him. His body felt unsteady, but he reminded himself that his feet were still firmly planted on the ground. He was not floating, not trapped in some alternate reality. No, this was painfully real. 

Jessika, his Jessika, had become something unrecognizable. She was once the love of his life, his partner, the mother of his children. For all of Jensen’s betrayal of their vows, he blamed himself for the shattering of the world they built together. But what he cracked, she destroyed. Her goodness, her selflessness was all an illusion. The Carpenter family suffered the worst of fates at her hand, and for what? For the platform she now stood on, glittering in the light of her own ambition. 

And yet, even as anger threatened to rise, it was drowned by something deeper, something heavier: grief. He mourned the Jessika he had loved, the Jessika who had shared his bed, who had held his children in her arms, who had once been his best friend. He had spent most of his entire adult life at her side, and now he was here, watching her from a distance so vast it felt insurmountable. 

She hasn’t seen you yet. You could leave. Just turn and walk away. 

The thought brushed against him like a whisper, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed possible. He could retreat into the crowd, slip away before she noticed him. But when he opened his eyes, he knew. The idea of fleeing was as hollow as it was futile. He wasn’t going to walk away. Even as his stomach churned, even as every part of him desperately wanted to avoid this confrontation, he understood that he would not run. He spent too long running.

And so he stayed, rooted in indecision but already knowing the outcome. He wished, fleetingly, that someone would sweep him out of the room against his will. It would have been easier—an escape forced upon him, a chance to avoid the weight of what he was about to do. 

But there was no savior coming.

He straightened his posture, hoping he did not appear as weak as he felt.

And so, Jensen stepped forward, weaving his way through the crowd toward the woman who now felt like a stranger. 

He was going to say hello.

[Sofia Vasilieva]

Colette hesitated over an answer. Sofia watched the minute signs of her fluster like a shark monitoring a smaller fish’s attempt to evade its hungry jaws. By the swivel of her head it was not difficult to discern an attachment still remained between Colette and the man who’d claimed her attention on the dancefloor  – not least because of the gentle flush which presently suffused Colette’s cheeks when she looked across at him.

Sofia’s stare was as hard as the diamonds on her mask, but if the anger radiated in almost palpable waves it was not at Colette. It was for her.

It was painfully clear that the woman had terrible taste in men, something that must be remedied now she was in Sofia’s inner circle. A persistent ex might be a compliment to her charms, something to gossip and laugh about, but if Colette had told him the relationship was over, then it was simply over. It was more than that though. Sofia’s upbringing had been one of privilege and excess, but also one that endeavoured to categorise her: mother or whore, its all women were supposed to be when they stopped being daughters, and it was the men in their lives who cast the judgement. Sofia fought against the label of either with tooth and claw, but she had a particular distaste for the aspersions of the latter. Though both implied a woman’s worth and power only amounted to one thing: what was between her thighs.

Men were predictable. Even the ambitious ones were led by their dicks. It seemed even the fucking Ascendancy had a woman wrapping him round her fingers – a whore cast aside to the shadows because he’d never share that power. Colette was more than whatever that man saw when he looked at her, more than whatever arbitrary claim he thought he’d laid. And if Colette was too weak to make that "no" heard, well… Sofia had no such reservations.

She turned her attention briefly to Carter over the mill of guests, but the look was dismissive.

“He isn’t worth your time. And you won’t make it anywhere in Moscow fawning after such men, Colette.” The warning was gentle, made in such a way it might easily have encompassed either of her suitors – Carter or Adrian. It was not said without empathy, but neither was Sofia seeking permission for what she did next. She raised a toned arm to click her fingers, held it there a moment before a return to poise. Family security was not obvious, but the Vasilievs made their money a certain way, so it was always present. Every movement was watched, every whim catered for. And after all, Sofia Vasilieva was Konstantin’s baby daughter, the most doted of them all.

Across the ballroom her eyes moved to brush against Pavel’s, where he stood surrounded by a sea of suits. She knew he would have noticed the gesture. He returned her look with a tight frown.

The man who presently attended them appeared as any other guest; smart tuxedo, simple mask, and he came bearing two refills of drinks in delicate crystal flutes, as though that was all the finger click had so elegantly demanded. Sofia took hers with the barest curve of a smile. “That man over by the pillar, he wasn’t invited, and he has been bothering my friend. Tell Pasha to have him removed – and Viktor, make certain he regrets the audacity.”

She looked at Colette as she spoke, not at Viktor. A reminder of who she was, of who the Vasilievs were, and perhaps to see if Colette protested. She should not have told Sofia otherwise. The gesture was a gift, the barest promise of Sofia’s ferocious friendship. A Volthström wasn’t a nobody, and he would not take kindly to the embarrassment, but anyone Colette was discontent with Sofia would defend her from. Even when she would not defend herself.

There was no acknowledgement of the command as Viktor slipped away. Sofia didn’t watch him go.

“Do you anticipate a scene? My darling Colette, it might be best to tuck yourself away in case he embarrasses himself.” She watched for Colette’s reaction, to see whether her friend relished the idea or recoiled from it. Then she turned slightly, allowing a better view of Adrian and Zixin’s distant tête-à-tête. It didn’t go unremarked, considering the currents of conflict she had perceived at their introduction. But for now it was the least of her interests. She imagined Colette would flee obediently to her date. But she ought to consider Sofia’s warnings about fawning as she did so.

For a moment she paused to look Zixin up and down across the distance herself. His blatant attempt at charming Jessika Thrice right under her nose when he’d been welcomed here on her arm would not be forgotten. But the public rejection diminished his appeal too – she had no intention of returning to his side unless he sought her out. Let him feel the cool side of Moscow’s disfavour. She’d been prepared to play nice – she still was – but it wasn’t the only way to get what she wanted from him. Just the easiest.

Her sharp glance moved to assess this new Privilege of an entirely new Dominance. That required calculation, but ultimately Jessika would need to understand her place in Moscow. It wasn’t where Sofia intended to go first, though.

“I have some things I need to attend to, if you will be okay?”

[Colette Moreau]

Colette tried to ignore Sofia’s judgment, but the words had already sunk their teeth into her. She wasn’t fawning over anyone! The accusation, however subtle, sparked a flare of heat in her chest, only to be smothered by a wave of shame she couldn’t quite shake. Why did Carter always manage to loom over her, even when she hadn’t given him a thought in weeks? Or was it months? Whatever it was, Sofia’s disapproval—however mild—brought him crashing back into her mind with infuriating force. 

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but Sofia was already summoning an employee. Colette had seen his kind at every Moreau event: silent enforcers, tasked with making problems vanish before anyone noticed there was a problem at all. She didn’t need an explanation to know what would come next. 

When Sofia’s cool, deliberate voice added, her final order, Colette froze. “Please don’t hurt him,” she implored. She reached out as if to make sure Viktor heard her, but he was already gone. Carter would never cause a scene, his pride and the Volthström name wouldn’t allow it, but the idea of him being escorted out like some drunken intruder left a sour taste in her mouth, and despite everything she pretended about polite society, Moscow had a reputation. Carter wasn’t invited, true, but this wasn’t his doing. This reeked of his cousin, Guillaume. 

Her eyes scanned the room as the thought took hold. If Guillaume was here—and he had to be here—he would be hiding behind one of these masks, watching with that infuriating smirk of his. She didn’t spot him, but her search caught on something else: Adrian, locked in conversation with Zixin, his posture sharp and deliberate. The sight sent a jolt of frustration through her, a reminder of how much power swirled around her tonight. Sofia’s warning echoed in her mind, louder now, and more forceful.

Colette turned away, her chest tightening. She wasn’t ambitious like the rest of them—not like Adrian, or Zixin, or even Guillaume. She wasn’t here for glory or influence. She had a goal, singular and specific, and she didn’t care if anyone lauded her success so long as she achieved it. Yet, everywhere she turned, it seemed the power belonged to someone else, and she was left navigating their currents, powerless to chart her own course. 

After explaining to Sofia that she would be alright, she flagged down a server and took a glass of champagne, swallowing two quick sips before taking a breath. The bubbles sharpened her resolve, or at least gave her enough courage to move forward. A rare opportunity had presented itself. The Ascendancy, swarmed earlier by guests eager to bask in his influence, had shifted attention back to the Vasilevs. Now, it seemed, he was preparing to excuse himself. If she didn’t act now, she might lose her chance. 

She didn’t rush, keeping her pace even as she intercepted him. As she approached, her gaze flicked briefly to the side, where Carter was subtly being escorted out. She didn’t let herself linger on the sight. If she hesitated now, she might change her mind entirely. 

“Ascendancy,” she said sweetly, stepping into his path. Her voice was calm, polished, a lifetime of refinement behind it. “Might I have a moment?” 

He paused, his surprise well hidden behind the cool detachment of his mask. His eyes studied her briefly, a flicker of recognition failing to spark. He doesn’t know me.

“Colette Moreau,” she offered, her smile just warm enough. His nod was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. She could continue. 

“I’m a friend of Senator Avalon,” she said, keeping her voice light, confident. “She asked me to deliver a message.” 

That caught his attention. His body language shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly. Colette pressed on, seizing the moment. 

“She told me how important she is to you,” she said, the smallest of smiles playing at her lips. 

For a moment, his expression didn’t change, his mask as unreadable as ever. Then, with a glance to someone nearby, he replied coolly, “Let’s talk another time, Miss Moreau.” 

Before she could react, he was already gone, a staffer stepping into his place to explain that someone would be in touch. Colette nodded as though this was the outcome she’d anticipated all along, handing over her contact information in complete poise. But as the staffer disappeared, she let herself exhale. The moment had left her breathless. It felt too easy, and yet the ripple of triumph curling in her chest was undeniable. 

She turned, ready to move on to the next task, when she came face to face with a familiar smirk. Guillaume. 

He kissed her cheek before she could pull away, his charm cutting through her composure like a knife through silk. 

“You are ravishing, Colette, as always,” he said smoothly, his accented tone drenched in French flattery without straying into mockery. 

She forced a smile, returning the embrace with far less enthusiasm. “I knew you must have been here somewhere.” 

His smirk widened. “Though I couldn’t help but notice my dear cousin is no longer among us. I wouldn’t have thought you capable of tossing out such a sweet, sappy face.” 

“Not that you’d know anything about sweet or sappy,” she shot back, resisting the urge to cross her arms. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her. “And for the record, it wasn’t me. He wasn’t on the guest list, and I’m certain you aren’t either.” 

Guillaume shrugged. “That’s never stopped me before.” 

“What are you doing here, Guillaume?” Her tone was sharp, pointed. 

“It’s a party,” he said innocently, spreading his arms. “A decent estate. Louis de Volthström Cristal… 2014 vintage… if my palette is correct, and it always is. You understand the appeal.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Obviously you’re helping Carter. You’re doing an excellent job. He nearly ruined things for me.” 

Guillaume’s grin widened. “What can I say? I’m a romantic.” 

“What you are,” she said icily, “I can’t say in polite company.” 

He laughed, clearly delighted by her irritation. “You have a good rest of your night, Colette. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, lifting her hand to kiss her knuckles before slipping back into the crowd. 

Colette watched him go, debating whether she should alert Sofia to his presence. But it was too late now. Guillaume was gone, and there was no reason for the Vasilevs to think Carter hadn’t acted alone. 

Guillaume de Volthström

Gui slipped away from Colette, satisfied with how he left her. The faint trace of irritation in her eyes was a small victory, one he savored. Colette was always so composed, so unflappable, but he knew exactly how to unsettle her without stepping over the line. It was a game he played for sport, though he suspected she thought there was more to it. Perhaps there was. 

Returning to the party, Gui didn’t bother masking his amusement as he caught sight of Carter in quiet conversation with one of the staff. The subtle tension in Carter’s posture and the way the staffer inclined his head told Gui all he needed to know. An expulsion. Gui recognized it instantly—he’d orchestrated more than a few in his time. 

Poor Carter, he thought with mock sympathy. Not his fault he’s so transparent. Gui made a mental note to check in with his cousin at the hotel (tomorrow), though he doubted Carter would appreciate the gesture.

As he approached the bar, he spotted Tarik, the man from the lounge earlier. He was with a woman Gui didn’t recognize, but she immediately drew his attention. Tall, poised, and strikingly beautiful, she carried herself with a smug confidence that suggested she was more than just another guest. Her dress clung to her like a second skin, plunging lower than any other woman in sight.

Gui’s curiosity piqued. He adjusted his mask slightly, smoothing the lapel of his jacket as he closed the distance. 

“Tarik,” Gui said, his voice carrying just enough to suggest familiarity without overstepping. “I see you’ve upgraded your company since I last saw you.”  He turned to address his companion.

[Sofia Vasilieva]

She wasn’t ignorant of where Colette went when they parted ways, and it prompted a small, pleased smile as she navigated her own way around the ballroom. Her path was waylaid naturally by those who sought her attention, and on this occasion Sofia gave it with the ease of a skilled hostess, warm and engaged as she used each opportunity to plant the seeds of conversation before moving on. For now she slipped playfully away from offers to return to the dancefloor (and after all, how could anyone compare with the Ascendancy?). By the time she made it to the bar, everyone knew where she was going and why: to check on poor injured Cyrena Marveet, who had been the victim of the most oafish Volthström gatecrasher.

“You do have a way of attracting the riff-raff, Cyrena.”

Sofia interceded without hesitation at what she interrupted, her arrival a swirl of scarlet that might as well have been the warning of blood yet to be spilled. She was a connoisseur of the most pleasant cutting remarks, and tolerant amusement laced the words and the fluttering laugh that accompanied her smile. But the brief glance she gave the other woman suggested the insult both intentional and to a purpose. Whatever Sofia said next, this was clearly about Carter Volthström and Cyrena’s poor choice of ally on Vasiliev turf. Colette Moreau was hers. Sofia practically presented her to Moscow’s society on a gilded pedestal. Any insult to Colette was an insult to Sofia on principle.

And Carter Volthström was a fucking insult.

In the small moment she paused to allow Cyrena to feel the cold fear of her mistake, Sofia glanced at Tarik as though he might be the riff-raff she meant. He was close with Dima, both of them work hard play hard, though Tarik was the only one of them who was little more than a junkie in an expensive suit. Then her gaze flicked pointedly up and down the stranger who had joined them – a man she did not recognise behind his mask, but had seen predate on Colette with familiarity in the wake of her audience with Nikolai Brandon. A perfect brow lifted in silent challenge. He’d have already seen what happened to his friend. Sofia was magnanimous. But she wasn’t to be crossed. His choice.

“Your father must be so pleased to finally make it into the Sphere,” she continued flawlessly. It was clear she only really addressed Cyrena – the others were just the set-dressing of an audience. “We all know how much he’s wanted it. Such a shame the Ascendancy allowed it to be undermined by the new Dominance – Jessika Thrice is all anyone is talking about. Well, that and your little slip on the dancefloor.” Her head inclined in sympathy. Sofia ensured the narrative she desired, of course. An escort out the door was the least of the character assassination Sofia would employ if Carter continued to make himself a problem, and those were the first seeds she nourished in her rounds tonight – ammunition for later use, should she need it. The second was more simple, and more vicious.

“Are you quite sure you’re okay, my dear?” She reached to touch the other woman’s arm in concern. It was a gesture full of sisterly affection – she was Maksim’s sister after all – but she only did it to make Cyrena uncomfortable. “You’re still looking quite pale. We all saw you limping when Zixin helped you away.”

And that, of course, was the other strike against her, and the reason this would not simply be a friendly reminder of dominance. How Cyrena imagined it would go uncontested Sofia couldn’t fathom, nor cared. Zixin took his own steps towards disappointment tonight – no one forced him to publicly fawn at Jessika’s side, unlike the way Cyrena launched herself onto him like the slut she was – but it didn’t lessen the claim. Cyrena was stupid to think Sofia would let it slide. Her touch receded, but the glitter in her eyes then was dangerous. She knew as well as Cyrena did that the injury had been theatrics, whatever rumours she had helped to speed tonight. Ultimately people remembered what you told them to, though. The power unspooled like the energy of the sun, filling her with righteous justification to her anger. Each thread was precise. Cyrena’s ankle did not move. But presently she would feel it.

“Don’t worry, Cyrena; the Volthström has been dealt with. He should be more careful about going where he is not invited.” Her gaze did not waver, though she knew the words carried – they were meant to. The entitlement of Volthström money and class meant nothing in Moscow, and if they wanted to play the game here, they should consider themselves more carefully before they decided who was friend or enemy. For now though, Sofia was entirely focused on Cyrena, poised with concern, ready to console. “It must be hurting, you know you don’t need to put on a brave face.”

[Xander]

His head was pounding. His eyesight nearly doubled at this point. Anyone who walked by with heavy scents made his stomach roll as the migraine pounded into his skull. It was too much, he really should go. The annoucement was over, Pavel wouldn't fault him leaving now, he had everything he could see.

Through the crowd Xander caught sight of Jensen walking towards his ex-wife and the new Privledge. Images swirled about him, and Xander cut off the visions abruptly lest he loose the contents of his stomach right there on the ball room floor. "I think I see Jensen. I'm going to inquire about his gift and then I'll be leaving." He gave Noemi a smile as he turned to her "It was a pleasure meeting you. Send my regards to your companion, and I hope he figures what that hole is all about. It looks deadly." Xander wasn't usually in the business of giving people advice, but that had been a strange one.

Xander put on his best smile as he tried to fake it through the migraine. It had been years since one had incapacitated him so. He approached Jensen...

[[ ooc: Totally up to Jensen or Jessika if Xander gets to Jensen before after they have a reunion. ]]

Kristian put his hand on Jensen's arm, a gesture of familiarity that he might not have done had he not been in the throws of a pounding migraine.