The estate in Lake Como was velvet-wrapped silence, the kind that whispered of power. Beneath its grand chandeliers and Baroque ceilings, Vivienne stood in front of the last mirror she would allow herself before the bloodshed.
A gown of obsidian silk clung to her body like a weapon—bare shoulders, slit high, made to disarm and distract. Her pistol, slim and elegant, was strapped to her thigh beneath the fabric. She could feel the cold steel pulse with each heartbeat.
Julien approached from behind, all in black, eyes as unreadable as ever. He offered her a pair of comms.
"Leclair is expected in ten. Volkner's already arrived."
"And Elise?"
Julien hesitated. "Unknown."
Vivienne nodded. Her mother had grown quiet lately. Too quiet. She knew Elise's games, the subtle kind, the ones that ended with bodies and media spin.
Tonight's masquerade ball was hosted by the Leclairs—ostensibly a charity event. In reality, a convergence of the final members of the Winter Pact. Vivienne had baited them beautifully, leaking rumors of a betrayal between houses. Paranoia always worked faster than poison.
She adjusted the mask on her face—black lace, sharp at the corners like a raven's wings.
"You look like vengeance incarnate," Julien muttered.
Vivienne smiled. "Good. That's the plan."
---
The ballroom pulsed with opulence—gold leaf, opera music, and a thousand secrets behind glittering masks. The air reeked of perfume and old money.
Damien found her at the top of the stairs, his presence sharp as ever. Black suit. No mask. Of course.
"You came," she said.
"I always come when it's dangerous," he replied. "You planning to kill them all in that dress?"
"Only the ones who deserve it."
He glanced at her thigh, where he knew the weapon lay. His lips twitched, but there was no amusement.
"You know if this goes wrong—"
"It won't."
Damien took her hand. Just once. And then let it go. "Then let's dance."
---
The first bullet was fired just after the second waltz.
It wasn't Vivienne's.
Chaos broke loose like shattering glass. Guests screamed. Masks were torn off. A sniper had targeted her from the mezzanine, but Julien intercepted, dragging her to the floor.
Damien was already moving—gun drawn, jacket flaring behind him like a cape. One shot, two, then three—clean, quiet kills.
Vivienne reached her feet, ripped the gun from her thigh holster, and fired into the chandelier. It came down in a crash of glass and flame, scattering the crowd.
Someone screamed her name. It wasn't fear—it was command.
"Vivienne!" Elise stood across the ballroom, mask gone, gun raised, her face a portrait of cold betrayal.
"It was always you," Vivienne whispered.
Elise didn't deny it. "Your father was weak. You were meant for something greater. But you chose love. You chose conscience."
Vivienne raised her weapon. "And you chose extinction."
A flash of light. A shot.
But it wasn't Vivienne who fell.
Damien tackled her, his body crashing into hers as the bullet grazed her ribs. Blood bloomed instantly.
"Damien!" she screamed.
He grunted, half-conscious, shielding her with his weight. Leclair and Volkner fled through the kitchen corridors.
Julien was at her side seconds later. "We need to go. Now."
Vivienne's hand trembled as she clutched Damien's collar. He was still breathing. Barely.
"This isn't over," she whispered.
Julien's voice was iron. "Then you better not die. Either of you."