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.