Searching (Radiance)

[Constantine Harroway]

Constantine Harroway had not yet become a fixture of Moscow society.

The city had not decided what to do with him, and so it lingered in that liminal space between fascination and indifference. That suited him just fine. Before he even crossed the threshold of the Radiance, two women on the street had recognized him, breathless with delight. He gave them what they wanted without hesitation. A smile flashed quick and bright. Mock kisses thrown into the cold air. Hands lifted to form a heart, exaggerated and theatrical. He stayed until their laughter settled and their photographs were secured, then slipped away with a grin still lingering on his lips.

Yes, he was a global sensation. A reality-romance darling, beloved and dissected in equal measure. But Moscow had deeper appetites. He would earn her attention in time.

The night had drawn him here for reasons both practical and curious. A companion club was slated to open beside the Radiance, and its owner had been meticulous in outlining the unspoken rules of proximity and power on their neutral grounds. Constantine had then decided to see the place for himself. Rules were always more interesting in practice than in theory.

Inside, the Radiance greeted him with warmth and gold-lit elegance. He shed his coat and revealed an ensemble that balanced defiance and refinement with effortless confidence. His trousers were tailored but fluid, dark velvet catching the light with each step. A silk blouse lay open at the collar, its pattern a subtle riot of jewel tones, softened by a fitted jacket cut sharp enough to remind onlookers that elegance need not apologize for whimsy. Rings glimmered at his fingers, layered and unapologetic.

Constantine chose a table with a view of both lobby and lounge, a cosmopolitan glowing pink-red in his hand bright and tangy. He drank slowly, not for the taste but for the ritual, eyes drifting as he watched the invisible currents that bound people together.

Threads were everywhere.

Golden strands twined faintly between many souls, some bright, some so thin they were nearly gone. An older couple passed through the lobby, their thread short and braided, heart to heart, worn smooth by decades of shared life. The fire between them had burned long and steady, now reduced to embers that still gave warmth. At the bar, a man and woman locked eyes, and a brilliant cord flared between them, sharp and hungry. It snapped just as quickly when another woman arrived, wedding band gleaming. The man rose at once, thread recoiling back into something dull and dutiful as he followed his wife away without a backward glance. Hotels were marvelous places for such things.

Then Constantine noticed the absence.

One man in the room bore no threads at all. None of lust. None of affection. None of rivalry or hatred. He was a clean break in the tapestry, a deliberate void where something should have been. Constantine glanced toward him more than once over the rim of his glass, half expecting the pattern to correct itself.

It did not.

When the man finally rose and approached another guest at the bar, Constantine straightened, interest sharpening. Even now, as they spoke, nothing formed between them. No spark. No pull. It was as if the world itself had declined to comment.

His gaze flicked again when a woman joined them, blonde and composed, dressed fabulously. Surely now, something would flare. Three attractive people in close proximity rarely left the threads unstrung. But again, nothing.

No threads bloomed. No cords stretched or tangled. The three stood separate, complete unto themselves, like stones resting side by side rather than pressing together.

Constantine’s amusement curved slowly, delighted and intrigued in equal measure. How very strange indeed.