By eight-thirty, the Saints mansion had ceased looking like a home. It looked like somewhere governments might be quietly overthrown over champagne.
From the upper gallery, Kashi watched another procession of black cars curve through the wrought-iron gates and disappear beneath the sweeping canopy at the front of the estate. Headlights glided over hedges cut with mathematical precision, caught briefly against the water spilling from the marble fountains, then vanished as valets descended upon each new arrival.
The entire property had been transformed.
Hundreds of lights threaded through the gardens, warm rather than glaring, turning trees and stone pathways gold beneath the night sky. Red roses, orchids and trailing greenery climbed the pillars at the entrance. Beyond them, the mansion doors stood open beneath an enormous floral arch, spilling music and laughter into the night.
And people kept coming. Executives. Chief executives whose signatures could move markets. Governors. Senators. Foreign diplomats.
Old families who had been wealthy long enough to consider discussing money vulgar, and newer ones rich enough not to care.
Women stepped from cars wrapped in silk, velvet and diamonds, masks hiding half their faces while doing absolutely nothing to conceal who they were. Men arrived in immaculate evening suits, some with wives on their arms, others with assistants or security lingering several respectful steps behind.
Everyone had dressed for spectacle. They had been told it was a masquerade. Apparently, half the country's wealthy had interpreted that as a personal challenge.
Kashi approved mostly.
Her gaze followed a woman crossing the entrance below in what appeared to be several kilometres of silver tulle.
Perhaps not entirely.
Inside, the ballroom glittered.
The Saints mansion possessed several rooms designed specifically for the sort of entertaining ordinary people required hotels to accomplish, but the grand ballroom had always been her grandfather's favourite.
Tonight, even Kashi had to admit the decorators had outdone themselves.
Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, scattering fractured light across polished marble and gilded mouldings. Candles burned inside tall glass cylinders along the walls, their flames multiplying endlessly in mirrored panels. Deep red flowers spilled from towering arrangements between tables dressed in ivory and gold.
Champagne moved continuously on silver trays. At the far end of the ballroom, an orchestra occupied the raised stage.
Violins swept beneath the low pulse of cellos. A harp threaded delicately through the arrangement while the piano carried the melody beneath them all.
At the centre of the stage stood Amara Clark.
The singer had arrived less than an hour earlier with enough security to protect a minor head of state and had immediately complained that the dressing-room lighting made her look deceased.
Kashi had liked her instantly.
Now Amara stood beneath a pool of warm light in a liquid-gold gown, one hand curved around the microphone as her voice floated through the ballroom—rich, smoky and effortless.
Waiters moved through the crowd with almost unnatural precision. Caviar. Oysters. Tiny things on porcelain spoons that Kashi had been assured were French and had therefore apparently earned the right to be offensively expensive.
The bar had been stocked with bottles older than several guests' marriages.
Somewhere downstairs, Frank was probably developing hypertension.
Kashi rested one hand against the carved balustrade. From here, she could see almost everything. Which was precisely why she had chosen this spot.
"They're still arriving." Ivar's voice came from beside her.
Kashi glanced towards him. He looked annoyingly good.
The ash-grey evening suit had been tailored close through the shoulders and waist, paired with a black shirt rather than the traditional white.
Silver cufflinks caught beneath the gallery lights whenever he moved. His mask covered the upper half of his face in textured ash and silver, sharp around the eyes without becoming theatrical.
Royalty apparently remained royalty even when dressed for organised deception.
Ivar leaned against the balustrade and surveyed the ballroom below with considerably less enthusiasm. "I recognise at least four people down there who have asked my father for something this year."
"Only four?" Kashi's mouth curved. "I can't remember the last time there was a gathering like this."
"And I owe half of them money and royal prestige." Ivar said
Kashi turned her head, Ivar remained perfectly serious. Her mouth twitched, then Ivar looked at her properly, paused and clicked his tongue.
Kashi raised a brow.
Men had been doing variations of that pause around her since she was old enough to understand what it meant. Still, she couldn't particularly blame him tonight.
Her gown was red. Not burgundy. Not wine. Not some tasteful approximation designed to make wealthy women feel daring without actually committing to anything.
Red.
The bodice fitted close before opening into a plunging neckline, structured just enough to hold its shape while leaving considerably more skin exposed than Grandfather James appreciated.
The fabric followed her waist and hips before falling into a sweeping skirt, interrupted by a slit climbing high along one thigh.
Her natural red hair had been drawn partly away from her face, the rest falling in loose waves down her back.
Diamonds rested at her throat. The purple mask remained in her hand. Ivar gave the dress another look.
Kashi lifted her chin. "Finished?"
"No." His gaze returned to her face. "I'm deciding whether Grandfather has seen this dress."
"He has."
"And you're still alive?"
"He complained." Kashi smiled. "I reminded him I'm almost thirty."
Ivar considered this. "Did that work?"
"No."
James Saints considered adulthood an interesting theory that applied to other people's grandchildren. Kashi returned her attention to the ballroom, another group had entered.
She recognised a telecommunications executive first, his silver mask doing absolutely nothing to disguise the unfortunate shape of his beard. Beside him walked the governor of one of the coastal regions, already laughing with a shipping magnate who had spent the previous year publicly insisting he despised politicians.
How moving. Money truly healed divisions. Near the central staircase, one senator greeted another with the warm embrace of men who had spent the last election season trying to destroy each other's careers.
Kashi watched them separate, still smiling. Beautiful. Civilisation.
Ivar followed her gaze. "You look like you're judging everyone."
"I am." She glanced at him. "We're hosting them."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive."
Below, Amara's song reached its final verse. The orchestra softened around her voice until the ballroom seemed to breathe with it. Conversations thinned. Heads turned towards the stage, then the final note climbed, held and released. For one suspended second, silence filled the ballroom.
Applause broke across it.
Amara smiled, dipped her head and stepped back as the conductor lifted his baton again. The orchestra shifted seamlessly into something lighter.
Conversation returned almost immediately. Kashi watched another tray of champagne disappear into the crowd.
All these people. All this money. All this influence gathered beneath one roof because the Saints family had announced that Crown Prince Ivar Giaever had come home.
That was the public story. A family reception. A celebration. An opportunity for the country's most powerful people to dress beautifully, drink excessively and pretend their attendance had absolutely nothing to do with gaining access to the royal standing beside her.
Kashi knew better.
So did Ivar.
He rested both forearms against the railing. "You realise half these people don't give a damn that I'm home."
"Don't be ridiculous."
Ivar glanced at her.
Kashi gave him a sympathetic look. "It's closer to three-quarters."
"How touching. Thank you, cousin." He looked back down. A foreign ambassador had just entered with his wife. Behind them came another prominent industrial family, then a bank chairman Kashi recognised immediately despite the elaborate black mask covering half his face.
Ivar watched the flow for several seconds. "And how many of them do you actually need?"
Kashi's attention sharpened. She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze travelled across the ballroom again, but differently this time, past the gowns, past the champagne, past the performance, people became positions.
The governor near the staircase, the deputy minister speaking with one of Grandfather's oldest associates. Two customs officials near the eastern doors.
A port authority director whose wife was apparently enjoying Amara's performance far more than he was. A foreign trade representative speaking to someone from Saints Energy.
There were others. People Xavier had identified.nPeople whose names had appeared around Vross often enough to matter.
And people who sat high enough above him that Senator Mikhail Vross could not simply make them disappear with a phone call.
"Enough," Kashi said. "We don't need everyone." She watched a waiter pass beneath them. "Vross's greatest advantage isn't that he controls every institution he claims to control. It's that people believe he does."
Ivar straightened slightly.
Kashi rolled the stem of her mask between her fingers. "Fear is efficient like that. Eventually, nobody checks whether the monster behind the door is still there. They simply stop opening it."
Something changed in Ivar's expression. A subtle shift Kashi recognised.
Beneath the ridiculousness, the strawberries, the dramatic whining and his lifelong commitment to irritating her, Ivar had been raised inside a royal court.
He understood power. Not Saints power. A different species entirely. The kind that had existed before corporations learned to buy politicians.
"I can't interfere with another government's regulatory institutions," he said.
Kashi looked at him innocently. "Who asked you to? Ivar, we're throwing you a party. Don't be ungrateful."
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Then movement near the entrance caught Kashi's attention, another guest had arrived.
Senator Mikhail Vross.
Kashi lifted the purple mask, satin ribbons slipping over her fingers. "Well. This should be fun."
Ivar's humour faded by a degree. "Should we make a bet? He's spent years wanting access to the royal family, and tonight you've handed him an invitation."
"Place your wager... " Kashi finally turned towards him. "... and I handed him the possibility of access." That was considerably more valuable. Vross would understand the difference. Men like him always did.
A direct invitation from Ivar would have made him suspicious and a private meeting would have told him somebody wanted something.
But a Saints ball? Hundreds of guests. Politicians. Executives. Diplomats and a Crown Prince surrounded by exactly the sort of people Vross spent his life collecting.
He would come because staying away meant allowing everyone else into a room he had spent years trying to reach. Kashi didn't need to drag him towards the trap. She only needed to make absence more painful than attendance.
Ivar studied her for a moment, then shook his head. "You're frightening." He took her hand and pressed an affectionate kiss to her knuckles. "And maddeningly beautiful tonight, cousin." His eyes lifted to hers as his fingers traced lightly along her neck, brushing close to the diamonds resting there. Fresh laughter swelled from downstairs.
Kashi lifted the mask to her face. Purple settled against red hair and pale skin, concealing just enough to satisfy the evening's theme while doing absolutely nothing to make Kashi Saints anonymous. That would have required divine intervention.
She looked once more over the ballroom. A room full of power pretending it had gathered for pleasure. Ivar offered his arm with exaggerated princely elegance.
"Ready?"
Kashi stepped away from the balustrade and slipped her hand through his arm. Together, they started towards the grand staircase. Below, somebody noticed, then another. Conversation began to change. Heads turned.
Kashi heard the shift before she properly saw it—that peculiar ripple travelling through rooms like this when attention found somewhere new to settle.
The Crown Prince had appeared. Exactly as planned.
Ivar leaned slightly towards her as they approached the staircase. "You owe me."
Kashi kept smiling for the crowd below. "Send the invoice to Grandfather."
"I already owe him money."
Her smile almost broke. "What?"
Ivar looked straight ahead. "And royal prestige."
Kashi turned her head towards him. He remained perfectly solemn. Below them, hundreds of masked guests waited for His Royal Highness to descend.
Kashi lowered her voice. "How the fuck do you owe Grandfather money?"
Ivar's mouth twitched beneath his mask. "Long story, my sweet."
The orchestra swelled and together, they descended into the ballroom.