Tuesday – 9:03 PM – Saint Helena Academy Auditorium
The chandeliers had no right to look that elegant for a high school function.
Vincent stood just inside the velvet-draped entrance, adjusting his too-tight tie and wondering how many of the glittering guests were actual parents—and how many were operatives disguised in cocktail dresses and expensive cologne.
The Saint Helena Charity Gala was supposed to be about scholarships and school pride. But tonight, it pulsed with hidden agendas. Smiles were weapons. Laughter was laced with arsenic. Every glittering surface reflected danger.
And somewhere in this ballroom of ghosts and predators stood Adriana Bogdan—centerpiece, mastermind, and target.
He spotted her before she spotted him. She moved through the crowd like a fault line beneath silk—poised, composed, terrifyingly beautiful in a backless black dress that looked like it had been poured onto her. Her hair was twisted into something sharp and regal, like a queen prepared for war.
She wasn't alone.
Tristan walked beside her in a tailored navy suit, whispering something into her ear that made her jaw tighten just slightly.
Vincent felt that old flicker of jealousy. Then something worse: worry.
Because Adriana was pretending. He could see it now. Her mask was too perfect. Too still.
She was preparing for something. Bracing for impact.
Zara appeared at his side, her dress a jagged mix of metallics and midnight blue, a taser tucked discreetly beneath her sleeve.
"You see it too?" she muttered.
He nodded. "She knows something's coming."
"Correction," Zara said grimly. "She knows it's already here."
-
Backstage
Adriana ducked behind the stage curtain as the headmaster began his syrupy introduction to the evening.
She didn't care about the scholarships or the speeches. She cared about the names—the leaked list—and what it meant.
Three of her father's off-duty men were marked for surveillance tonight. If the Serpent network knew who they were, it meant someone inside the Red Court had flipped.
And that meant the gala… wasn't just compromised.
It was bait.
She clicked her earpiece. "Zara, status?"
"Vincent and I are by the refreshment table. No visual on unknowns yet, but there's definitely tech in here. Rafi's jammer is picking up encrypted transmissions."
"Copy. Tell him to isolate the signal. If we can trace the device, we can trace the mole."
Zara paused. "And what if the mole's in this room right now?"
Adriana's eyes scanned the glittering chaos outside the curtain. "Then we draw them out."
-
Vincent was pouring himself a drink when the lights flickered once—twice—then went dark.
A single scream echoed across the room.
Then, backup generators kicked in, flooding the ballroom with emergency lighting—harsh, cold, and unforgiving.
"Rafi, talk to me," Zara hissed into her mic.
"I didn't do it," came Rafi's panicked voice. "Someone's overriding the comms. I'm losing signal strength by the second."
Vincent scanned the room, heart pounding. Adriana had vanished.
Then—
BANG.
Not a gunshot.
A crash.
Something—or someone—had fallen from the upper balcony. Security rushed in. Teachers screamed. Tristan shoved his way toward the commotion.
Vincent ran the opposite direction—toward the stage.
He found Adriana there, crouched behind the curtain, hands stained with something dark. Not blood. Ink.
She held a shattered phone and a torn wire in one hand, breathing hard.
"They planted a transmitter behind the soundboard," she said breathlessly. "Live-streaming to an off-site server."
"Did you stop it?"
She shook her head. "Not fast enough. They saw faces. Patterns. Probably matched identities in real time."
Vincent helped her up. "So what now?"
"We turn the trap inside out."
-
The Real Sabotage Begins
Rafi had rerouted the fire alarm protocol. Zara looped the hallway cameras. Mina "accidentally" spilled water on the DJ's laptop, delaying the next distraction long enough for Adriana to make her move.
She slipped away from the gala, climbed two flights up, and entered the old photography lab—the perfect surveillance perch.
She didn't realize Vincent had followed her until he shut the door softly behind them.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I'm not leaving you alone with an open war brewing downstairs."
She didn't argue.
Instead, she pointed at the glowing laptop on the desk—screens showing heat signatures, movement patterns, server feeds.
"They were never targeting the gala," she murmured. "It was always about the after."
Vincent's brow furrowed. "The after?"
She pointed to a blinking red dot on the screen.
"The student files. The server wing. Someone's breaking into the administration building."
Vincent stepped back. "Why?"
"Because that's where the original Red Court files are hidden. Identities. Bloodline records. Blackmail folders. If those get leaked—"
"It's over," he finished.
Adriana nodded once.
Then her voice cracked slightly. "They'll kill my father. And then come for me."
He stepped closer, hand brushing hers without meaning to.
"Then we stop them."
Her eyes met his.
And the air between them shifted again—taut, electric, impossibly delicate.
Vincent reached for her again—but she turned, pacing. "Don't. Not again."
He paused. "Why?"
"Because if you touch me right now, I'll forget we're standing on a landmine."
She turned back to him, eyes blazing. "And I can't afford to forget."
"I'm not asking you to forget," he said quietly. "I'm asking you to trust me."
Silence.
Then a whisper: "I already do. That's the problem."
-
Administration Building – Vault Corridor
They got in through the east entrance. No cameras, no guards. Just peeling paint, darkness, and the eerie buzz of a timer counting down on a nearby wall.
"Pressure sensor grid," Adriana said. "Classic old-school protection. Whoever's breaking in had to have bypassed this."
"Unless," Vincent said, "they didn't bypass it."
They turned the corner—just in time to see a masked figure sprinting down the hallway, carrying a fireproof case.
Adriana reacted instantly.
She ran. Fast. Silent. Merciless.
She caught the intruder at the stairwell, slammed him into the railing, and ripped the mask off—
Tristan.
Vincent stumbled to a stop behind her. "What?"
Tristan's nose was bleeding. His expression wasn't shocked—it was resigned.
"You really thought I didn't know what you were?" Adriana spat.
Tristan smiled bitterly. "You think you're the only one tired of being someone's puppet? Your father's not the only kingmaker in this city, Adriana."
"You sold out the Court."
"I freed myself from it," he snapped. "Just like you're trying to."
Vincent moved forward. "What's in the case?"
Tristan's eyes met Adriana's. "Everything. Birthrights. Blackmail. The whole ugly truth. You're not a princess. You're a contingency."
Adriana stared at him—then lifted the case from his hands.
"No," she said. "I'm the end of the game."
She opened it, removed a flash drive, and crushed it under her heel.
Tristan's eyes widened. "That's the only copy—"
"Exactly."
He lunged—but Vincent blocked him, slamming him back against the wall.
"Go," Vincent said to Adriana. "Get this back to your father."
"No," she said, breath ragged. "We both go. Together."
-
The Rooftop, Again.
The city below was still humming with light and sin.
Adriana stood beside Vincent, case clutched in her hands, her dress torn, her hair undone.
"I'm not sure what we just started," she said.
Vincent replied, "Revolution, maybe."
She looked up at him.
"I wasn't going to kiss you again," she whispered.
"Good," he said. "Because I was going to do it first."
This time, it wasn't rushed.
It wasn't guilt-ridden.
It just was.
And for a moment—just one—there was no Serpent, no Red Court, no school, no war.
…just two people on the edge of everything.