Whispers ripple through the room, but most fall silent as Gideon approaches, with the crowd parting like the Red Sea, only to close ranks again once they’ve passed.
Then Leo spots them—two faces that stop him cold. Members of the Ripley Records Board.
If there had been any doubt before yesterday that Carnell had Ripley Records wrapped tightly around his little finger, it was gone now. Their presence here confirms it: Carnell isn’t just pulling strings. He’s yanking the whole damn marionette.
“Did you see Eddie Derman? And Wade Fielding? Bastards,” Luca mutters under his breath.
“That’s enough, Luca,” Gideon says quietly. “That’s not why we’re here.”
“No, but where is he, then? We’ve been here hours already.”
It has only been twenty minutes, tops, but Luca isn’t wrong—it feels like an eternity under the subtle and not-so-subtle stares of party-goers passing in and out of the room to get a better look at Carnell’s heir.
“He arrives when he arrives. No doubt he’s been told we’re here.”
Gideon is the epitome of unconcerned nonchalance, leaning casually up against the mantle of a fireplace that’s too small for the hideous room.
“Patience.”
Luca shifts nervously from foot to foot, but manages to keep his usual stream of anxious commentary under control.
Nix, on the other hand, is less self-contained as he scans the room constantly, occasionally clenching his jaw—as if he hears things he’d rather not, or catches the scent of something unpleasant.
The ambient noise reaches chaotic levels when Gideon finally places his empty champagne glass on the mantle, making his way through the densely packed rooms back toward the imposing two-story entrance, with its broad staircase curving upwards.
There are several couples perched on stairs, jockeying for the best view of the party; they’re clearly looking to see and be seen.
Events like this will provide weeks, if not years, of fodder that the elite can grind in the gossip mill.
Like creatures sensing a predator in their midst, conversations fall silent as they pass.
Those on the stairs press themselves to the walls, and suddenly, it dawns on him: it probably hasn’t been anything Carnell would have told them about Gideon—it’s purely Gideon’s commanding presence.
Power radiates from him effortlessly, as natural here in luxury as he had been making grilled cheese in borrowed sweats. Again, Leo thinks that this Gideon—formidable and untamed—feels like someone Leo has never met.
With his aura extending out in front of him, Gideon sucks them along in his wake, drawing eyes as he ascends upward toward the railing, where they’ll be able to see all of Carnell’s sycophants laid out before him. His gaze sweeps over the crowd with a sharpness that promises no detail will be forgotten.
Leo is certain Gideon has already committed each face to memory, cataloging them for future reckoning. Some seem tosense it, too—the weight of being seen by a predator who might decide their fate. They scatter like cockroaches exposed to light, some of them smart enough to slip out the grand front doors and vanish into the night.
Leo wants to laugh at their foolishness and then sing with pride at his mate’s power. Not because he is a fierce, power-hungry ruler, but because Leo knows Gideon Carnell likes tea, cats, and poetry. These buffoons can’t recognize the source of his mate’s true power: love.
As that final thought solidifies in his mind, Gideon halts, squaring his shoulders and widening his stance, ready for battle. Just ten feet away stands their nemesis, dressed head-to-toe in an immaculate white suit, shirt, and tie—the bright fabric casting a stark contrast against his leathery, orange-toned skin.
Leo’s gaze shifts to the memory of the black king he’d chosen from the chessboard—a reminder of why they’re here. In this moment, it’s a true fifty-fifty chance: will Gideon risk everything to take Carnell’s heart in front of four hundred powerful witnesses, or will he bide his time?
“Allistair, what an unexpected pleasure,” Carnell drawls, his voice slick with oily charm. Thin lips curl into a mockery of a smile, dripping with condescension.
Gideon bows his head slightly. “I doubt that, given that you invited us.”
There’s only the smallest eye twitch at Gideon’s failure to show his sire the respect he feels he’s owed.
“This is a celebration in your honor.”
“We received all of your invitations. You were so eager to have us, I could hardly resist coming to see what the fuss was all about.”
Luca snorts from Leo’s left.
Carnell’s jaw tightens—a fractional hardening that speaks volumes. His smile stays in place, but it sharpens.
