The symposium began the way all carefully constructed displays of power did -quietly.
Blackthorne's Grand Atrium had been transformed overnight. The long marble floor gleamed beneath the chandeliers, polished to the point of reflection. Banners hung from the upper balconies bearing the insignias of families whose names never appeared on ballots yet shaped elections regardless. The air carried the faint scent of citrus and old paper, of money that preferred to smell neutral.
Sirène stood at the edge of the room and observed.
She wore black ,not the kind meant to seduce, but the kind meant to signal control. Her dress was simple, tailored, unadorned. No jewelry save a thin band at her wrist. Nothing that invited interpretation. Everything that demanded attention.
She felt it immediately, the shift.
Conversations softened. Heads turned. People noticed.
Her family's name did that.
She crossed the floor with practiced ease, heels clicking in measured rhythm. Each step was intentional. She did not rush. She did not linger. The Valemonts had raised her to understand that speed suggested anxiety, and stillness suggested authority.
She greeted a minister here, a board member there. Accepted pleasantries without warmth, questions without answers. This was not her first performance.
And yet-
She felt him before she saw him.
Lucien Ashcroft stood near the central dais, one hand resting lightly against the back of a chair as he spoke to a cluster of men twice his age. They leaned toward him, listening. He did not smile. He did not gesture unnecessarily. His presence bent the space around him the way gravity bent light.
He wore a dark suit-black, of coursecut sharply enough to appear severe. No tie pin. No excess. Nothing ornamental.
He did not look at her.
That, somehow, was worse.
Sirène forced her gaze elsewhere, continuing her circuit of the room. She felt watched nonetheless—not with curiosity, but with the steady attention of someone who already knew where she would move next.
"Sirène."
Julian Rothmere's voice cut through her thoughts.
She turned to find him approaching with a glass of champagne in hand, his expression relaxed, almost amused. He looked perfectly at ease, as though the room belonged to him by default.
"You clean up well," he said.
"So do you," she replied evenly.
He smiled. "You look… deliberate tonight."
"Is that an accusation?"
"A compliment," Julian said. "Everyone here is pretending not to stare."
She inclined her head slightly. "Pretending is what we do best."
Julian glanced past her shoulder. His smile sharpened. "Ashcroft hasn't taken his eyes off you since you arrived."
Sirène did not turn.
"I doubt that," she said.
"I don't," Julian replied. "He watches like he's counting something."
Her fingers tightened briefly around the stem of her glass.
"Perhaps you should stop looking," she said.
Julian laughed softly. "Why? Does it bother you?"
She met his gaze calmly. "Does it bother you?"
His expression flickered just for a moment—before settling back into charm. "Not at all."
He shifted closer, lowering his voice. "Your family's influence is… impressive. I hadn't realized the Valemonts and Ashcrofts were aligning."
"They aren't," Sirène said.
Julian's smile widened. "Yet."
Before she could respond, a voice spoke from behind her.
"Rothmere."
Lucien's tone was polite. Neutral. Dangerous in its restraint.
Julian turned, eyebrows lifting. "Ashcroft. Enjoying the spectacle?"
Lucien's gaze moved past him to Sirène.
"Immensely," he said.
The word lingered, weighted.
Sirène felt the attention in the room sharpen, subtle but undeniable. People noticed when Ashcroft entered a conversation. They always did.
"You didn't introduce us," Julian said lightly.
Lucien did not look at him. "I assumed she didn't require it."
Sirène held Lucien's gaze, pulse steady despite the tension threading beneath her skin.
"I don't," she said.
A flicker of something approval, perhaps—crossed Lucien's eyes.
Julian laughed. "You two sound like you've rehearsed."
Lucien finally turned to him. "This isn't a rehearsal."
Julian's smile faded a fraction.
Sirène took a step forward, subtly repositioning herself,not beside either man, but between them. The movement was instinctive, calculated. A reminder of her own agency.
"The symposium is about institutional ethics," she said calmly. "Shall we behave accordingly?"
Lucien inclined his head. "Of course."
Julian lifted his glass. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene."
Lucien's gaze lingered on Julian a beat too long. "Scenes are rarely caused," he said. "They're revealed."
Julian's jaw tightened. He excused himself moments later, leaving Sirène alone with Lucien in the widening space he left behind.
The room felt different without him.
Quieter. Sharper.
"You didn't deny it," Lucien said.
"Deny what?"
"That people are watching you."
Sirène took a slow sip of champagne. "People always watch."
"Yes," Lucien said. "But not like this."
She lowered her glass. "And how is this different?"
Lucien stepped closer ,not invading her space, but narrowing it. The proximity was deliberate. Controlled.
"This is interest," he said quietly. "Not curiosity."
Her breath hitched, just barely.
"You sound certain."
"I am."
She studied him, the calm precision of his posture, the absence of visible tension. He was not threatened by Julian. He was not unsettled by her presence.
He was claiming space.
"Your family orchestrated this," she said.
Lucien did not deny it. "They created an opportunity."
"And you?"
"I accepted it."
The honesty unsettled her more than evasion would have.
They stood like that close, composed, aware of the attention curling toward them like smoke.
Lucien extended his hand not to her, but toward the empty chair beside him.
"Sit," he said.
It was not a command.
It felt like one anyway.
Sirène hesitated, then sat.
Lucien took the seat beside her, their shoulders nearly touching. Not quite. The absence of contact was deliberate, charged.
As the keynote speaker began, Lucien leaned in slightly, his arm resting along the back of her chair,not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
Her skin prickled.
"You're doing this on purpose," she murmured.
"Yes," he replied softly.
"For whose benefit?"
"For clarity."
Her gaze snapped to him. "Clarify what?"
Lucien's eyes remained on the stage. "What belongs where."
Her heart beat once—hard, sharp.
"That's a dangerous way to think."
He glanced at her then, something dark and intent settling into his expression. "Danger is relative."
Their hands rested inches apart on the armrest between them.
The space felt impossibly small.
Sirène did not move.
Neither did he.
The speaker's voice faded into background noise. Sirène was acutely aware of her own breathing, of the tension coiled tight beneath her composure.
Lucien's fingers twitched.
Not toward her.
Away.
The restraint was unmistakable.
She looked at him, searching for something she could name. She found none.
Only certainty.
When the applause rose, he stood smoothly, withdrawing his arm, restoring distance as if nothing had occurred.
"You should be careful," he said quietly, as people around them rose. "Rothmere doesn't enjoy being dismissed."
"I didn't dismiss him," Sirène replied.
Lucien's mouth curved faintly. "You replaced him."
She stiffened. "I did no such thing."
"You stood between us," he said. "You chose position."
The words settled into her chest like a truth she hadn't intended to reveal.
Before she could respond, he was gone swallowed by the room, by conversations and power and inevitability.
Sirène remained seated for a moment longer, heart steady but racing beneath the surface.
She had not been touched.
And yet-
She felt claimed.