The dining room was dressed for war.
Gold chandeliers hovered above the long glass table like watchful crowns, each crystal pendant reflecting the flame of flickering candles. Polished silver cutlery gleamed under the lighting—knives lined up perfectly, sharp in both design and metaphor. Every chair was spaced with mathematical precision, except one.
Aria's.
The staff had placed it two seats away from the head of the table—close enough to be seen, not heard. Far enough that the message was clear: she wasn't part of the core circle. Not yet.
She stepped into the room in black. Not mourning black. No—intentional black. A sleek dress, high collar, long sleeves, cut just below the knee. Unadorned. Unbothered. It made her look like what they didn't want her to be: controlled.
As she crossed the room, footsteps light on marble, no one greeted her. The staff pulled her chair back without making eye contact. That suited her fine.
Juliet entered next, perfume preceding her like a cloud of sugar-laced venom. Her gown shimmered silver, slit too high, lips too red. She didn't look at Aria—just smirked as she took her seat across the table.
"Didn't expect to see you in something so... minimalist," she murmured. "I guess when you're used to hand-me-downs, anything clean feels expensive."
Aria didn't look up from her napkin. "Clean isn't always the same as clear."
Juliet frowned faintly. Before she could respond, Selene made her entrance—loud heels, loud jewelry, louder intentions. Her navy satin dress hugged her frame like a second skin. She glided in with a practiced sway, her smile polished and poised for the kill.
"Aria," she said smoothly, as she took her seat beside Juliet. "I barely recognized you. You look... refined."
Aria finally looked up. "That must be disorienting."
Selene's smile twitched.
The sound of silver being placed echoed down the length of the table. Glasses were filled with white wine. Plates set. Silence fell in elegant layers as if waiting for something to snap.
Juliet leaned in, resting her chin on the heel of her palm. "So… what's life like on the outside? Do you still remember which fork is for salad?"
Aria picked up the smaller fork and placed it gently to the side. "I don't usually need one to cut through things."
Juliet blinked. Selene covered a cough with her wineglass.
The door at the end of the room opened.
Vincent Moreau entered.
The room straightened. Literally. Posture adjusted. Breath held.
Vincent wore authority like a tailored suit—charcoal, crisp, deliberate. No tie. Just a collar sharp enough to draw blood. His gaze swept the table once, cool and unreadable, before he moved to the head seat.
"Begin," he said simply.
The staff poured wine like they were fueling a fire. Dishes were uncovered. Steam rose in gentle swirls from roasted duck, scalloped potatoes, wild mushrooms, and heirloom carrots arranged like sculpture.
No one spoke right away.
Knives cut, glasses clinked, and silence—thick and polite—reigned.
Selene broke first. "So, Aria," she said sweetly, slicing into her food with unnecessary grace, "what did you study again? Or did you go the self-discovery route?"
Aria chewed, swallowed. "I studied negotiation."
Juliet grinned. "So, you're here to negotiate a place at the table?"
"I'm here because someone already made space," Aria said lightly. "I'm just filling it now."
Selene tilted her head. "Funny. I don't remember that chair having your name on it."
"That's because names only matter to people afraid of being forgotten."
Juliet's knife scraped a little too hard against her plate.
Vincent didn't say a word. But he was listening. Aria could feel it—the subtle pressure of his gaze. Measuring. Weighing.
Conversation shifted to nothing—gallery openings, Monaco trips, someone's boutique launch in Paris.
Selene talked about an upcoming fashion gala. Juliet bragged about being seated with a royal at a private yacht party.
Aria sipped her wine. The words around her blurred into static.
She didn't need to chase attention. It was already crawling toward her, one microaggression at a time.
And then—Juliet leaned back, lifting her glass.
"To new beginnings," she said, voice smooth and mocking. "Especially for those who started from the laundry room."
Selene stifled a laugh behind her glass.
Even Isabelle, seated in silence at the far end, allowed the ghost of a smirk.
Aria raised her glass in return, face calm.
Eyes unreadable.
Her gaze swept slowly over the table—over the shining cutlery, over Juliet's grin, over Vincent's glass paused mid-air.
She didn't speak yet. Just sipped.
Calculated.
Filed it all away.