Lorelai balanced on the tips of her toes atop the tall circular stool, rag in hand, scrubbing at the low-hanging crystals of the chandelier. Tiny motes of dust and old wax had settled like stubborn snow on the glass prisms; she attacked them with grim determination, forehead creased, lips pressed thin. Below her, three other maids moved in quiet rhythm across the grand hall, spreading pristine white tablecloths over the round banquet tables, centering each with heavy silver candelabras. One girl tilted a fresh candle over a flame just long enough to soften the base, then pressed it firmly into the holder so it would stand straight through the night's speeches and toasts.
The rope suspending the chandelier swayed gently with every hard scrub Lorelai gave it. Mariana, checking the alignment of plates along the serving table, glanced up and frowned.
"Careful there, girl. We don't need broken bones tonight, we're short enough as it is."
Lorelai turned, grinning despite the ache in her calves. She flexed one arm playfully, patting the thin muscle. "Don't underestimate these guns, Mariana. I can…"
The words died as the stool—already uneven on one leg—tilted sharply sideways. Her body lurched forward, arms windmilling, straight toward the nearest candelabra. The scream lodged in her throat; her eyes flew wide. The other maids gasped in unison, hands flying to their mouths. Mariana lunged uselessly from across the room, as though sheer will could bridge the distance.
"Damn it-" Lorelai hissed under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut against the coming crash of crystal and flame and bone.
But the impact never came.
Strong hands closed around her waist, both of them, yanking her back mid-fall with effortless strength. Her body swung backward like a pendulum, spine colliding against a solid, unyielding chest. The breath punched out of her lungs. Her outstretched hands still hovered inches from the table, trembling. The hall went deathly quiet except for the soft creak of the chandelier settling above.
Lorelai swallowed hard. Her head stayed frozen forward; only her eyes darted sideways, straining to glimpse her rescuer without daring to turn. The scent hit her first—not kitchen grease or lye soap or cheap cologne, but something clean, expensive, faintly spiced with sandalwood and old books. No one on staff smelled like that.
"Are you all right?" The voice was low, calm, almost gentle—enough to make her chest feel strangely light despite the terror clawing up her spine.
She managed a tiny nod, toes scrabbling until they found the floor again. The moment they did, the hands released her swiftly, politely, as though they had never been there at all. She dropped to her knees at once, forehead nearly kissing the polished wood.
"I'm so sorry, Master!" Her voice cracked. "I didn't mean—"
Atlas Draven.
The young master who rarely left the upper floors. The one the servants spoke of in whispers: pale and fragile from the sickness that had no name and no cure, soft-spoken as a priest, beautiful as something carved from ivory. But the stories that followed were darker how a careless touch from a woman could end with her vanishing into the night, how a snapped neck could happen as casually as a man might swat a fly if the mood took him.
Lorelai's back ran with cold sweat. Why isn't he saying anything? The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Mariana stood frozen by the fallen stool, breathing loud enough to hear across the room. Everyone waited for the decree.
"What are you kneeling for?" Atlas asked at last, voice still quiet, unruffled.
Lorelai kept her eyes on the floorboards. "I—I didn't mean to fall like that. I've ruined your day. I deserve…"
Another beat of silence. Then a slow, relaxed exhale above her.
He crouched.
The hem of his long off-white jacket brushed the floor beside her. Lorelai's fingers dug into the wood, nails scraping.
"Lift your head."
She tried. Her body refused. Fear locked every muscle.
"I—"
His hand moved slowly, deliberately. One curled forefinger slipped beneath her chin and tilted her face upward. She met his eyes.
Hazel, clear as autumn light through leaves. Features so finely made they looked almost unreal: high cheekbones, a mouth that curved naturally into something gentle, hair the color of dark honey falling just past his collar. No anger there. No ice. Just calm curiosity.
"I'm sorry, young master," she stammered. "I shouldn't have made a scene in front of you—"
"Shhh." He shook his head once, small and patient, still holding her chin steady. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
What is wrong with him? Why is he talking to me like this? He doesn't look angry. Am I… spared?
She searched his face for the trap, found none. Her pulse hammered in her ears.
"I I'm fine, young master. Thank you for your concern." She swallowed. "I'll resume my duties. I won't give you any reason to complain."
Atlas stayed crouched a moment longer, hand lingering in the air where her face had been. Then she pulled away—quick, stumbling to her feet, bowing so low her hair nearly swept the floor. She snatched the fallen rag from the ground and hurried toward the side door without once looking back. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it might crack them open.
Behind her, Atlas remained in place for several long seconds. His lips curved—just the barest lift at one corner. His thumb rubbed slowly against his forefinger, as though savoring the ghost of warmth left on his skin.
"Brother?"
The voice cut through the hall from the arched doorway. Rose stepped in—black halter-neck blouse tucked into a high-waisted checkered skirt, black stockings, black heels clicking sharp against the floor. Hair pinned in its usual flawless knot. She stopped short, staring at her brother crouched in the middle of the banquet hall like some strange statue, looking quietly amused.
Atlas turned his head slightly. The smile deepened.
"Isn't it, my darling sister?" He rose in one smooth motion, jacket settling around him like wings folding. "I've heard of your little achievement last night. And oh, my—I'm proud of you."
Rose regarded him coolly, expression unchanging.
"Someone had to do it," she said, voice flat, matter-of-fact. "If not you, then it was automatically me."
Atlas tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something fond and dangerous all at once.
"Of course it was," Atlas murmured, the words soft as velvet but edged with something sharper beneath. "After all, you killed Valentino."
Rose's jaw tightened—a small, involuntary flex that Atlas caught at once. He tilted his head, studying her like a collector examining a rare specimen.
"You killed him, right?" he pressed, calm, almost gentle. There was no room for half-truths between them. Never had been.
Rose drew a slow breath, eyes drifting unfocused for a heartbeat. "Three bullets were fired. His men arrived soon after. I can't say for certain." There was a long, uncomfortable pause. She needed to say something or the anxiety would claw at her.
She glanced down at his hand, the one that had lingered in the air where the maid's chin had been, then lifted her gaze again, one brow arching.
"What were you doing sitting on the floor, brother? Checking for mites in the wood, I presume?"
Atlas let out a low, amused sound. "Hah. Not a mite. A mouse, perhaps. A particular one has caught my attention for a while now. A skittish little thing."
He nodded toward the back door, the narrow service entrance Lorelai had fled through moments earlier.
Rose followed his gaze. Her brows knitted, then smoothed into faint disappointment as understanding settled.
"A maid?" The word carried a faint curl of disdain. "Don't tell me your taste has fallen that low since the sickness took hold."
Atlas chuckled again, soft, unbothered, the sound almost fond. "You could say that."
He gave her a small, careless wave. "I'll see you at the banquet, after his death is confirmed."
With that, he turned and strolled toward the far doors, steps light, almost leisurely, as though the weight of illness and family wars sat on someone else's shoulders.
Rose watched him go. Her chest felt tight, had felt tight since the alley, the way Valentino's body had jerked against the bricks. What had happened had happened. There would be repercussions; she had always known that. But the silence from the Varkis side unnerved her more than any immediate retaliation could have.
That quiet was worse than the noise. It meant something was brewing, something deliberate, something patient. Or perhaps they were simply waiting for the final word from the hospital. For confirmation that the heir was gone.
"He has to die," she muttered under her breath, the words barely louder than a sigh.
Only a blow that deep would cripple them. Only a dead heir would make any counterstrike they planned feel like spitting into the wind. She stared at the empty doorway where Atlas had disappeared, fingers curling slowly at her sides.
The banquet would be loud. The toasts would ring out. The wine would flow.
But beneath it all, the waiting would continue.
Rose straightened her shoulders, smoothed the front of her checkered skirt, and Mariana approached her slowly. "Miss ROse did you need assistance in some matter?" she asked at the sudden arrival of Rose in the hall. Rose looked at her and then nodded. "I am looking for Lorelai. Where is she?" She asked
Mariana turned to look at the door where she had just escaped. Rose's gaze followed hers, and then she spoke. "I will send her to your room."