The private space curated by House Varel was exactly what it was meant to be—exclusive, warded, untouchable.
A softened alcove veiled by curtains of pale smoke-silk, lit from beneath by low ether-glow. It wasn't removed from the ballroom but elevated just enough to make entry feel earned.
Inside, the Spite Department had taken to it with the familiarity of people who no longer flinched at luxury.
Julian had one leg crossed over the other, swirling a drink with academic disapproval. Irina was still adjusting the shoulders of Rafael's coat—threatening, in low tones, to pin a brooch through his sternum if he slouched again. Alexandra stood near the edge, arms folded, watching the nobles below as if debating which one to dismantle next.
Gabriel was seated on the divan, posture impeccable, a flute of chilled water in hand and the polite expression of someone enduring endless praise disguised as conversation.
Then Damian stepped in.
No one said anything. Not right away.
