Miles away from the dim-lit depravity of Orion’s club, the atmosphere is entirely different. Here, there is no pounding bass, no dark leather, and no smell of smoke. There is only the sterile, suffocating perfection of the Upper District.

In the private garden of the pristine estate, the air is thick with the scent of blooming white orchids and imported tea. The glass dome overhead shields the occupants from the heavy rain outside, turning the storm into nothing more than a faint, rhythmic patter against the reinforced glass.

Lady Dimitra sits perfectly upright in a high-backed, gilded chair. Her silver-threaded gown falls around her in flawless, sharp waves, not a single crease out of place despite the nightmare that had unfolded earlier that afternoon.

She handles her porcelain teacup with rigid grace, her perfectly manicured fingers steady, her face an unreadable mask of detachment.

Across the small, marble-topped table sits Lady Alice.

If Lady Dimitra represents the absolute apex of the traditional elite—frozen, unyielding, and terrifyingly structured— Lady Alice is the chaotic anomaly that high society simply cannot afford to look away from.

She leans back in her seat with a casual, almost disrespectful ease, a sharp contrast to Dimitra’s posture. Her dark eyes gleam with a strange light, and a faint, knowing smile plays constantly on her lips.

"The catering staff will need to be entirely replaced, of course," Lady Dimitra says, her voice smooth, entirely devoid of any tremor or emotion as she sets her cup down on the saucer with a soft, delicate click.

"The previous agency proved to be... compromised in their screening protocols. We cannot have the same security lapses occurring twice."

"Naturally," Lady Alice replies airily, waving a dismissive, elegant hand through the air. "And the floral arrangements must be entirely redesigned. White lilies feel far too cliché after a detonation, don’t you think? Perhaps something more vibrant for the next party. Something that speaks to resilience or reinvention."

"A week should be sufficient time for the grand ballroom to be restored," Dimitra continues, her tone conversational, as if she is discussing a minor scheduling conflict rather than the aftermath of a catastrophic terrorist attack.

After all, an attack is only an attack if it is felt by the people it is directed against.

"The structural damage was localized to the eastern courtyard. The main hall requires only minor surface adjustments and a thorough cleaning."

"One week," Alice muses, tilting her head back to look at the rain trickling down the glass dome. "Yes, one week is perfect. It gives the tailors just enough time to repair the guests’ ruined clothes. It would be a tragedy if the photographs were ruined by hasty alterations."

The two women continue their dialogue, their voices light, floating through the opulent conservatory like a pair of socialites planning a mundane seasonal gala.

The engagement party is pushed back a week with an airy finality, the bombing treated as nothing more than background noise to their grand design.

Consciously and deliberately, both women choose not to discuss or touch on the deaths or injuries caused by the attack. The blood on the marble floors, the screams of the wounded, and the names of the deceased are entirely beneath their notice.

A handwritten note of apology as well as substantial financial compensation to the grieving families should do the trick.

Lady Dimitra stands at the absolute peak of the elite hierarchy, a position cemented by generations of blood, fortune, and political dominance so absolute that a mere explosion cannot shake its foundation.

And Lady Alice is an anomaly so deeply entrenched in the hidden gears of power, an entity so terrifyingly perceptive, that the high society elites are forced to keep their eyes glued to her every move, paralyzed by what she might do next.

Because of this, no matter what happens, there will always be guests at the next engagement party.

The fear of social exile—and the terrifying consequences of crossing either woman—far outweighs the fear of explosions and death.

Even if the ballroom explodes a second time, the invitations will still be accepted, the clothes will still be worn, and the applause will still echo. The engagement will hold.

"The registry remains unchanged," Lady Dimitra notes coldly, her voice settling over the room like a heavy frost. "The minor houses have already confirmed their attendance for the rescheduled date. They understand their obligations."

"They always do," Lady Alice purrs, her smile widening just a fraction. "The show must go on, as they say."

The conversation lulls, returning to the gentle, rhythmic sound of the rain against the glass dome. For a long moment, neither woman speaks, the certainty of their power hanging in the air like a physical weight.

Slowly, Lady Alice reaches into the small, embroidered silk clutch resting on her lap. Her movements are deliberate, entirely devoid of haste.

Without breaking eye contact with Lady Dimitra, Alice withdraws a single photograph. She places it face-up on the marble table, her long, pale fingers sliding it wordlessly across the surface until it rests directly beside Dimitra’s teacup.

Lady Dimitra doesn’t blink. She looks down at the table.

The photograph is a candid shot, depicting Adrien. He looks small, fragile, and utterly terrified, his wide eyes filled with the permanent, haunting anxiety of someone who knows he is entirely at the mercy of powers beyond his comprehension.

Wordlessly, Lady Dimitra reaches out. Her perfectly manicured fingers pick up the photograph, her expression remaining a cold, clinical mask.

Across the table, Lady Alice watches her.

Slowly, the airy, playful demeanor vanishes from Alice’s features entirely. The warmth leaves her expression, and her smile sharpens, turning entirely venomous.

"I’m sure you must have met my stepson by now..."

*****

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