# Chapter 10: A Rival's Glance
The crystalline chandeliers of the Atrium Ballroom dripped light like frozen tears, each prism fracturing the glow into a thousand tiny rainbows that danced across the marble floors and the polished heads of New York's supernatural elite. The air hummed with a low, sophisticated thrum of conversation, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the almost subliminal thrum of old power. Pres Sanchez stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, a pillar of modern elegance in a gown of obsidian silk that seemed to drink the light around her. The city sprawled below, a breathtaking tapestry of electric life, but she saw none of it. Her mind was a thousand feet below, in a dusty bar in the Lower East Side, and a thousand years in the past, staring at a name that had just rewritten her reality: The First Alchemist.
She brought a flute of Bollinger to her lips, the champagne's crisp, yeasty scent a faint anchor in the storm of her thoughts. The bubbles burst on her tongue, a fleeting sensation, but the taste was lost on her. Every fiber of her being, every instinct honed over two centuries of survival, screamed that she was standing on a precipice. The discovery of the Codex's origin wasn't just a complication; it was an extinction-level event for her carefully constructed world. Valerius saw a tool. He was a blind man grasping at a supernova. This was power that didn't play by the rules of bloodlines and hierarchy. It was the power to unmake them.
Across the room, leaning against a pillar with an air of languid entitlement, Julian Vance watched her. He was a vision of old-world perfection, his tailored tuxedo immaculate, his blond hair styled just so, his features a masterclass in aristocratic beauty. To the casual observer, he was simply another guest, bored by the proceedings. But Julian's eyes, the color of winter sky, missed nothing. He saw the tension in Pres's shoulders, the way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes when a board member from a werewolf-run conglomerate offered a toast. He saw the subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of her gaze down to the slim datapad she held, its screen dark but for a single, pulsing indicator. She had checked it three times in the last ten minutes.
A familiar, bitter cocktail of jealousy and suspicion curdled in his gut. He and Pres had history, a tangled affair of politics, passion, and power that had ended when her ambition had outstripped his usefulness. He knew her tells. He knew the mask of corporate indifference she wore, and tonight, it was slipping. Something had her rattled. Something important enough to pull her focus from the most critical social gathering of the season, where Lord Valerius himself was holding court. He pushed off the pillar, his movement fluid and predatory, and began a slow, meandering path through the crowd, his eyes locked on his target.
Pres felt his approach before she saw him, a shift in the ambient energy of the room, a prickle on the back of her neck. She straightened her spine, her expression hardening into the familiar, unreadable mask. She did not turn as he came to stand beside her, his reflection a pale ghost in the dark glass before her.
"Preserving the view, or plotting a hostile takeover?" Julian's voice was a smooth, cultured baritone, laced with an undercurrent of mockery. "You've been staring at the same patch of Queens for the last five minutes. I didn't think you cared for the boroughs."
"Julian," she said, her voice cool and level. She turned her head slightly, acknowledging him without offering her full attention. "I was merely considering the city's infrastructure. It's a fragile thing. One wrong move, and the whole grid collapses." The double meaning was intended, a subtle warning.
He chuckled, a soft, dismissive sound. "Always the pragmatist." He gestured with his own champagne glass toward the datapad in her hand. "Though I must say, your dedication to Sanchez Biotech's R&D is… admirable. Most CEOs leave the spreadsheets at the office. Especially for Valerius's gala."
Pres's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the device's cool metal casing. "Innovation never sleeps, Julian. You of all people should know that. Stagnation is death." She let her gaze sweep across the ballroom, a dismissive glance that took in the opulent displays of wealth and power. "This is just… maintenance."
"Maintenance," he repeated, savoring the word. "Is that what you're calling it?" He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate, conspiratorial register. "I heard a rather interesting rumor today. Something about a significant resource diversion. Untraceable funds funneled through three shell corporations, all of which just so happen to be fronts for the Concordat's discretionary accounts. All of them pointing toward a little project of yours in the Lower East Side."
Pres's heart gave a single, hard thump against her ribs, a betrayal of her composure she quickly suppressed. He was fishing, but he was fishing in the right ocean. She turned to face him fully, her expression one of mild, corporate annoyance. "My projects are proprietary, Julian. You know that. If you have questions about my budget allocation, I suggest you take it up with the board. Or perhaps you're just curious because your own department's funding was… reallocated this quarter?"
A flicker of anger crossed his perfect features, quickly smoothed away. He had expected deflection, but the personal jab still landed. "Touché. But this isn't about quarterly reports. This is about a level of energy expenditure that's setting off alarms in places you don't want to be setting off alarms. You're not developing a new cancer drug, Pres. The energy signature is… messy. Chaotic. It feels like something that should have been buried a thousand years ago."
The air between them grew cold, the ambient chatter of the gala fading into a distant hum. This was no longer a game of flirtatious sparring. He was accusing her of something far worse than corporate espionage. He was accusing her of heresy.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And I would be very careful about the kind of ancient history you go invoking, especially in this room. Valerius has little patience for ghosts."
"Valerius has even less patience for secrets kept from him," Julian countered, his charm finally evaporating to reveal the hard, ambitious core beneath. "You're hiding something, Pres. Something big. And you're using Concordat resources to do it. That's not just corporate malfeasance. That's treason."
The word hung in the air between them, a death sentence in this gilded cage. Pres met his gaze without flinching, her own eyes turning to chips of glacial ice. For a moment, the centuries fell away, and they were just two predators circling each other, baring their fangs. She could feel the weight of the Codex in her mind, the impossible power it represented, and the terrifying reality of what Julian was threatening to uncover. If he told Valerius, she would be stripped of her title, her company, her life. And Relly… Relly would be hunted down and extinguished with extreme prejudice.
"Treason is a strong word," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "So is slander. Be sure you can back up your claims before you start throwing them around. My reputation isn't the only one on the line."
She saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He was powerful, but she was still a Sanchez, her name and her influence a formidable shield. He had suspicions, not proof. And in their world, suspicion was a weapon, but proof was a guillotine.
Before he could press his advantage, a new voice cut through the tension. "Pres. There you are." Lord Valerius approached, his presence a sudden, crushing weight in the vicinity. He was older than both of them, his power a palpable thing, an aura of ancient authority that made the very air feel heavy. His eyes, dark and fathomless, passed over Julian with dismissive contempt before settling on Pres. "I was hoping to discuss your projections for the next fiscal cycle. Your work on the Purge's logistical framework is… promising."
Julian's jaw tightened. He had been dismissed. Outmaneuvered. He gave a short, sharp bow, his expression a mask of deference that barely concealed his fury. "My Lord. Pres." He turned and melted back into the crowd, but the promise of retribution hung in his wake.
Pres watched him go, a cold dread settling in her stomach. The confrontation had been a warning. Julian was not going to let this go. He would dig. And he was not without his own resources. She turned her full attention to Valerius, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass. "Of course, my Lord. I would be delighted."
As Valerius began to speak of supply chains and energy conduits, Pres's mind was already racing, formulating new plans, new contingencies. She had underestimated Julian's jealousy and his ambition. He was no longer just a nuisance; he was a direct threat. She had to secure her secret, and Relly, before he could uncover the truth.
Across the ballroom, Julian Vance stepped out onto a secluded balcony, the cold night air a welcome shock after the cloying warmth of the party. He pulled a slim, untraceable communicator from his inner pocket, its surface dark and seamless. He didn't bother with pleasantries. He keyed in a secure frequency, his voice low and venomous, stripped of all its earlier charm.
"It's Vance. I have a new priority." He paused, listening to the tinny voice on the other end. "Forget the Fenrir Syndicate's accounts. I need you to divert all assets to surveillance. Deep background. I want to know everything about Pres Sanchez's off-the-books activities. Everything." He looked back through the glass wall, his eyes finding Pres as she smiled up at Valerius. "Start in the Lower East Side. Find out what she's hiding there. And find it now."