The lights inside had dimd slightly since they’d stepped out. Just enough to give the impression of warmth, as if opulence needed to be more inviting to feel believable.
Don and Miss Claire passed through the tall archway with an ease that didn’t belong to newcors. She led, he followed—a few steps behind, never far, always just close enough to keep pace without shadowing.
The mont they returned to the main reception areas, it beca obvious the crowd had tripled.
Guests lingered in clusters, or moved in pairs, all dressed like they’d crawled from magazine pages or auction catalogues. Every third face was probably on a board of directors sowhere. Every fifth had likely stepped over soone to get there.
Don didn’t recognize a single one.
They passed a man with salt-white hair and an accent so clipped it could’ve shaved glass, discussing foreign logistics with a woman who nodded without blinking.
Then another group—two won and a man—laughing too loudly about sothing that wasn’t funny. Every conversation slled like currency and hidden clauses.
Don said little. He followed Miss Claire’s pace and mirrored her posture—offering nods, short greetings, a word or two when necessary. It was almost rhythmic: a hello, a glance, a handshake that never lasted more than two seconds. Then they moved on.
So of them were genuinely pleased to see Claire. Others were better at faking it. The ones who noticed Don either overcompensated or did their best not to look like they were weighing the chances of him causing another city-wide incident.
Neither reaction impressed him.
Claire didn’t seem impressed either.
That changed, though—not right away, but gradually—when they reached the main hall of the residence.
The space was a monunt to old money. A grand staircase curved up like a spine of carved oak, polished to a sheen. Light spilled from crystal chandeliers overhead, onto tile patterns too detailed to have been done by machine.
Waiters wove silently between clusters, trays balanced in one hand, glasses balanced in the other. Sowhere, a woman’s laugh rose—posh, practiced. hahh~
Glass clicked nearby. tik~
Don’s gaze swept the room. There was an adjoining lounge just off the main staircase, open to view but sunken slightly below floor level, frad by heavy pillars and soft golden light. It was there that Miss Claire’s steps slowed.
Don didn’t notice at first.
She’d drifted to a near halt beside him. It wasn’t abrupt. Just one of those shifts you only noticed once you were half a step ahead. His eyes cut sideways—and that was when he saw it.
Her attention wasn’t on the staircase. Or the decor. Or the shifting tide of wealthy strangers.
It was on a couple across the room.
The man was older. Refined-looking in the way money tended to age people well. His salt-grey beard was trimd neat, his suit darker than most, with a navy pocket square folded with elite care.
His arm rested lightly on the elbow of the woman beside him—a much younger figure in a deep burgundy dress that showed more than it concealed. She was beautiful, but with that bored cruelty so won wore like perfu. Her makeup didn’t hide her expression; it amplified it.
As they neared, Don heard her voice over the noise with zero effort.
"...her gown looks like it ca from last season’s charity rack. Honestly, who lets their assistant walk out the door in that color?"
He didn’t recognize the target, but the tone was familiar. The kind used by people who only smiled when they saw soone beneath them.
Still, Don kept walking, expecting to breeze past. Until the woman turned her head and saw Claire.
Then saw him.
Her smile was imdiate.
Small. Intentional. Mischievous.
Not fake. Worse—calculated.
Don didn’t like it.
He glanced toward Claire from the corner of his eye, searching for any sign she’d noticed. She had. But her face was the sa as always. Impenetrable. The only difference was her pace slowing even more, until they stood directly in front of the couple.
She didn’t speak first.
"Claire, oh Claire, darling—" The woman’s voice rose in practiced surprise. "Is that you?" She let go of the man’s arm and stepped forward slightly, her expression brightening as if this were so long-lost reunion. "You look absolutely gorgeous!"
Claire’s hands ca together in front of her, folding over the front of her purse. The movent was clean. Purposeful. A polite blockade. "Jennifer," she said plainly. "So nice to see you."
Don didn’t miss the way Claire’s eyes shifted briefly toward the man beside her.
"Evening, Declan," she added.
The man gave a short nod, his eyes lingering half a mont too long before responding, "Evening, Claire... and—Don, was it? You’re that young man from the news." He smiled faintly. "I almost didn’t recognize you."
Don returned the gesture without hesitation, extending a hand just enough to make contact before pulling back. "A pleasure to et you."
"Quite different up close," Jennifer chid in, her smile flattening into sothing harder to place. "Without all the blood and dust, I an."
Declan chuckled. "Well, I suppose you’re right, dear."
It wasn’t the worst conversation Don had been dragged into. If anything, this was ta. Claire clearly didn’t like Jennifer, but from what he could tell, that wasn’t unusual. Most people here had at least one person they couldn’t stand.
He was about to write it off—just another social obligation—until Jennifer spoke again.
Her smile shifted again, turned inward sohow, like she was trying not to laugh at her own thought before it even landed. She looked at Don, then Claire, then back to Don again. Her gaze didn’t drift—she appraised him openly, a single brow raising in mock curiosity.
"I must say though," she began, slow, "I’m a little surprised by this pairing."
Claire said nothing.
Jennifer tilted her head. "I didn’t take you for the type to prefer younger n."
Her tone didn’t bite. It didn’t need to. Not when the entire sentence had already drawn blood.
Don didn’t flinch.
The line wasn’t direct enough to warrant outrage, but it hung there, just petty enough to demand acknowledgnt. A jab dressed like an observation.
He glanced toward Claire again—not fully, just enough to catch her profile.
Still unreadable.
No shift in her stance. No twitch of annoyance. Her expression remained composed, her lips neutral, her fingers still folded over the purse like nothing had happened.
Don’s reply stayed in his throat. This wasn’t his mont to counter.
So he just smiled.
Quiet. Passive.
But his eyes didn’t move off Jennifer.
She looked like she was waiting for sothing.
Claire, however, had already decided the interaction was over.
She didn’t flinch. If anything, the jab had brushed past her like an errant breeze. A faint smile—not warm, but present—had begun to form at the corner of her mouth, and Don was almost certain she was about to speak. Probably sothing neat. Polite. asured and cruel.
But then Jennifer flicked her hair back.
It was an exaggerated motion, a performance more than a habit, paired with a half-turn of her head and the sort of self-satisfaction that required mirrors to rehearse.
"But what am I saying?" she chid, waving one hand lazily. "I imagine you’re both still quite green."
She paused.
Then giggled at her own joke. hmhm~
The man beside her gave a dry chuckle. Not spontaneous. Just late enough to be noticeable. Delayed input, delayed output.
Jennifer, encouraged, added, "The young man might even be more experienced."
Don didn’t need superhuman perception to know what she ant by it. The smugness in her tone was doing all the heavy lifting.
The shift in Claire wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flinch or a gasp or anything so pedestrian. But her smile—what little there was of it—flattened. Her shoulders didn’t move, but her posture adjusted by degrees. Less amused. More calculating.
Her voice, when it ca, was smooth enough to skate on.
"You would know best about experienced young n, Jennifer," she said. "So I don’t doubt you."
Don’s lips twitched upward.
The laugh that left Jennifer’s mouth didn’t match her eyes. hahh~
The smile that replaced it was stretched thin, held together by vanity and restraint. Declan had stopped chuckling. Probably a second late again.
Jennifer looked like she was going to respond—Don expected another stab. But the direction caught him off guard.
"Rumors, darling," she said, feigning a laugh, her hand brushing her shoulder as though swatting away invisible gossip. "You on the other hand—"
She turned to Don.
Her gaze scanned him openly. Boldly. A little too slow.
"You should be careful," she said, her voice dipping. "Or else soone more daring may steal him from you."
Don didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Her eyes flicked back to Claire before the punchline landed.
"Like they did your fiancé."
Her laughter followed, imdiate and proud. hmhmhm~
Declan’s chuckle joined in, but it was weaker now. Maybe the earlier comnt about young n had finally caught up with him.
Don’s gaze didn’t move to the man.
It was on Claire.
’She used to be engaged?’ The thought passed quickly, replaced by sothing colder.
Claire wasn’t looking at Jennifer. Not exactly. Her eyes had narrowed just a hair, her breathing shifting—slightly faster, slightly deeper. Enough for him to notice. Her fingers still rested on the front of her purse, but the grip had changed. Less relaxed. Her knuckles didn’t whiten, but they weren’t far off.
She didn’t speak.
Not right away.
The silence was longer than expected.
Long enough to feel unnatural.
Don’s eyes stayed on her. He could hear the chatter in the room still going—glasses clinking, the dull hum of conversation, another light burst of laughter from the stairway. tik~ clink~
But it all felt a few steps removed. The noise existed, but only as background. Static.
’Is this what she ant... by enduring humiliation?’
She’d said it before, back in the garden. That many people climbed high by swallowing things they shouldn’t have to. By enduring it. Biting down until it passed.
Claire wasn’t responding.
That wasn’t like her.
His shoulders tensed slightly, posture tilting just enough to suggest he might step forward. Might say sothing.
And then it hit.
———
[Side Objective Triggered: Stand Your Ground??]
Choice: Confront or Withdraw
Reward: ???
———
The prompt didn’t blink or chi. It just appeared. Hovering in the corner of his eye like a silent dare.
Don breathed out through his nose. Quiet. asured.
Claire was still silent.
He watched her chest rise once more—sharper now. Not enough to alarm anyone else, but he could hear it. The shift in her breathing. The slight elevation in heart rate. Everything under the surface trying to stay under.
She wasn’t going to answer.
Or maybe she would—later, in a way that didn’t satisfy.
So... would he?
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