Jay stepped out onto his balcony, resting his arms against the railing as the wind brushed through his hair. The city lights stretched endlessly, glittering like constellations scattered across the ground.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
He remembered something Clara said in the library — "Because you're unpredictable, Jay. That makes you dangerous."
Maybe she wasn't wrong.
But what she didn't realize was that unpredictability wasn't his weakness. It was his weapon.
He smiled faintly, looking down at the traffic below.
Tomorrow, he'd attend Tyler's match. He'd laugh, tease Amaya, and pretend everything was normal. And while the world saw a calm, laid-back student in the stands — behind that mask, Jay Markov would be quietly dismantling the next piece of Clara's plan.
He whispered to himself, almost amused, "You're not the only one who can multitask, cousin."
St. Ivy Streets
The night air carried a crisp chill as Jay walked through the quieter part of Midtown. His steps were casual, but his route deliberate.
He stopped by a small convenience store, grabbed a bottle of cold brew, and headed toward the corner across from the Silver Terrace — the restaurant Clara had reserved. From across the street, he studied the building.
It was modern — glass walls, indoor gardens, a minimalist fountain at the front. Security cameras in predictable spots. Nothing heavy-duty.
He noted the layout quietly, every detail fitting into his memory.
Then, his phone buzzed.
Amaya:
"Where are you? Luna says she saw you near the city plaza again."
Jay smiled.
"Just walking. Needed a break from overthinking."
Amaya:
"Try underthinking for once. You're starting to sound like Miles."
Jay chuckled under his breath. "Ouch."
He typed:
"Noted. I'll head home soon."
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and crossed the street. His reflection passed over the glass panels — calm, ordinary, forgettable. Exactly what he wanted.
Back at the Apartment
Jay returned home and switched off the main lights, leaving only the desk lamp glowing softly over the open folder.
He added a few new notes to the page — Clara's meeting time, her contact pattern, and the fact that she was avoiding estate guards. That last one mattered.
Because if Clara was acting independently, it meant she didn't want Reginald or the other elders to know what she was doing.
Which meant this wasn't just politics. It was personal.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, connecting the final dots.
She was testing the boundaries of her reach — how far she could operate outside the family's shadow. And Jay… he was about to remind her why those boundaries existed in the first place.
He didn't need to confront her directly.
He just needed to show her what it felt like to play against the original heir.
To: K.O.
"She will come tonight not on Sunday, No interference during dinner. Observe only. Send layout of Silver Terrace's staff entry route."
"But Sir, she booked it for next day!"
"just do what I said"
"Yes master"
A moment later
To: V.R. (Vincent Rahl)
"Has Clara reported her movements to the estate?"
A reply came moments later — Vincent's tone always carried quiet weight, even in text form.
"No, young master. Her reports have been silent for weeks. Should I inform your father?"
Jay's jaw tightened.
"No. Not yet. Let's see how far she goes."
Vincent's response came instantly:
"Understood. Be careful, Jay."
Jay closed the chat window, staring at the faint glow of his phone screen.
"Careful," he echoed. "That's all we ever are."
The lights were dim now, his thoughts sharper than ever. He sat on the bed, scrolling absently through his school messages, pretending he was still that student — still that version of himself who laughed about rooftop lunches and class projects.
But that illusion never lasted long.
Because behind the calm exterior, the Markov heir was awake again.
Not the quiet boy from St. Ivy.
Not the charming student with a lazy grin.
But the strategist who once made the elders whisper.
The one Elias envied.
The one Reginald feared would grow too powerful too soon.
He had never lost the throne.
He'd simply left it behind.
And now, as Clara moved her pieces across his board, he was ready to remind her — and anyone else watching — that stepping into his world came with consequences.
Jay stood once more by the window. The lights flickered faintly below, the wind brushing past his hair.
Tomorrow would bring laughter, noise, and Tyler's ridiculous post-match celebrations. But beneath that — beneath the easy smiles and the surface normalcy — another game would continue.
A quieter one.
A sharper one.
He exhaled softly and whispered into the dark:
"Your move, Clara."
The soft hum of the city drifted through the open window — horns in the distance, laughter spilling from the cafés below, and the occasional echo of music from passing cars.
Jay leaned against the window frame, phone in hand, the screen's glow flickering over his expression. A message blinked at the top:
K.O.:
"You are right sir, she is here. Target confirmed. Clara Markov arrived at The Silver Terrace. Marius Cain already seated. Private booth, north section."
He let the screen dim and exhaled, resting his chin on his knuckles.
So she had gone through with it.
Clara was meeting Marius off the record, far from estate eyes. Not a coincidence. Not even a test. This was her way of showing initiative — building her own network while pretending not to.
Typical Clara move. Calculated. Elegant. Just risky enough to make people believe it wasn't planned.
But Jay wasn't watching to stop her. He was watching to learn.
The moment he'd predicted arrived twenty minutes later — another message, same channel.
K.O.:
"Cain left early. Clara stayed. Two unidentified guests joined her. No guards. No Markov insignia."
Jay smirked faintly, muttering to himself, "So that's your backup hand."
She was expanding outward — establishing quiet ties under her own name, trying to claim territory outside the Markov web.
And she thought he wouldn't notice.
Midtown Streets
Jay slipped on his jacket, stepping out into the cool air. The streets had thinned out, replaced by low chatter and neon reflections on the wet pavement.
The Silver Terrace came into view a few blocks down — tall glass walls, polished marble, and the hum of quiet, expensive conversations within.
He stopped across the street, slipping his hands into his pockets. From here, he could see her through the tinted window — that perfect posture, that calm, diplomatic smile.
She looked like a professional. A rising noblewoman handling delicate talks.
Not the cousin who used to challenge him at chess and laugh when she lost.
The sight made him smirk. She's grown sharper, he thought. But not careful enough.
He watched the small gesture she made to one of her guests — a tilt of the glass, a pause before speaking — and immediately caught it. A signal. A tell.
Every Markov had one.
Clara's was her wrist. She always touched it before she lied.
He checked his watch. Two minutes before they finish. Perfect.
Alley Beside the Terrace
Jay stood in the shadows near the staff exit as the guests left one by one. Clara lingered last, stepping outside with that composed, practiced grace.
The wind brushed through her hair as she turned — and froze.
He didn't move closer. Didn't even raise his voice. He just looked at her, eyes steady, unreadable under the streetlight.
Clara's lips parted in faint surprise — then curved into a small, amused smile.
"Following me now, cousin?"
Jay tilted his head. "You're not exactly subtle tonight."
"Neither are you."
Silence hung between them, broken only by the faint hum of the city. They stood there — two Markovs, each pretending the other hadn't already predicted this moment.
"You could've joined me," Clara said softly. "Marius would've been thrilled to meet the ghost prince of the estate."
Jay's reply was calm, almost lazy. "And ruin your little secret dinner? That wouldn't be polite."
She smiled — sharp and knowing. "You always did enjoy watching from the sidelines."
He stepped forward just enough for his voice to drop lower.
"I don't watch, Clara. I wait. There's a difference."
Her eyes flickered — the faintest crack in that perfect composure.
"How did you find out that I will be here tonight not on the booked date?"
Jay leaned in slightly, his tone quiet but cutting:
"You're testing limits. I get it. But next time, choose your meeting place more carefully. Half the people in there work for my father."
That landed. For a heartbeat, her mask slipped — shock, then irritation, then slow amusement.
"So this was your warning?" she asked.
Jay smiled faintly. "Think of it as a courtesy."
Clara's gaze softened, almost fond. "You're still playing the game, Jay. You just don't want to admit it."
He turned away, his voice fading as he walked off. "No, Clara. I just learned how to win without sitting at the table."
Jay's Apartment
Back home, he set his jacket aside and poured himself another glass of water. The adrenaline was gone now, replaced by that strange quiet satisfaction that came only after a clean move.
He'd let her play her piece, observed it, then closed the distance before she realized she was being watched. No confrontation. No scandal. Just silent control — the kind of move his father would've approved of.
Except this time, it wasn't for Reginald Markov's sake.
It was for his own.
He looked down at his notes one last time, crossing out Clara's name under Reach Points. Then, beneath it, he scribbled a short phrase:
"Game over — for now."