The dining hall at Crescent Hill was all crystal and quiet restraint.
Light spilled from the chandeliers overhead, refracting through cut glass and polished silver, casting soft halos across the long table where members of both families sat. Everything gleamed—every plate, every wineglass, every carefully arranged floral centerpiece—yet the air itself felt tight, drawn thin by expectation.
Ava sat perfectly straight in her chair.
Too straight.
She could feel it—the collective attention circling her like a slow hunt. Not obvious. Not aggressive. Just… waiting.
This was not dinner.
This was evaluation.
Across from her sat Mrs. Whitmore, a distant but influential relative from the Harrison side, elegant and sharp-eyed, her smile gentle but never quite reaching her gaze. Beside her, Uncle Raymond folded his hands over the table, posture relaxed, eyes observant in a way that made Ava's skin prickle.
They weren't immediate family.
Which somehow made it worse.
Matthias sat beside Ava.
Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his arm. Far enough that he wasn't touching her.
That, somehow, made it worse.
The conversation flowed politely at first—safe topics, neutral ground.
"How was the drive?"
"Crescent Hill looks even more beautiful at night."
"The gardens are in full bloom this season."
Ava smiled when appropriate. Nodded. Spoke when spoken to. Everything Aria had drilled into her, she followed to the letter.
Then the questions shifted.
Subtle. Casual.
Dangerous.
"So," Mrs. Whitmore said lightly, lifting her glass, "Aria—may I call you that?—what was your favorite subject in school?"
Ava's fingers tightened beneath the table.
Aria's favorite subject.
She knew this. She knew this.
"Literature," Ava replied smoothly. "I always—"
She stopped herself just in time.
Not loved. Loved was too open. Too American.
"I always enjoyed analyzing texts," she corrected, forcing calm into her voice.
Mrs. Whitmore smiled. "Any particular author?"
Ava hesitated.
A fraction too long.
Across the table, Matthias lifted his glass, sipping slowly, eyes fixed not on his relative—but on Ava.
Watching.
Waiting.
"Classic literature," Ava said carefully. "The structure. The discipline."
It wasn't a lie.
It wasn't the truth either.
Mrs. Whitmore nodded, satisfied—for now.
The conversation moved on, but the pressure didn't lift. It shifted.
Uncle Raymond leaned forward slightly. "You spent part of your childhood abroad, didn't you?"
"Yes," Ava said.
"Where exactly?"
Here it was.
The thin ice.
"Boston," Ava answered, heart thudding. "For a few years."
"And what age were you when you returned?"
Ava opened her mouth—
Then closed it.
Numbers tangled in her mind. Aria had told her this once, offhand, like it didn't matter. But now, with every eye on her, it mattered too much.
"Fourteen," Ava said finally.
The silence that followed was brief—but lethal.
Mrs. Whitmore tilted her head. "Fourteen?" she repeated gently.
Ava felt it immediately.
Wrong.
Not obviously wrong. Just enough.
"I thought," she continued softly, "you returned at thirteen."
Ava smiled.
Too tight.
"I might be misremembering," Ava said quickly. "The transition blurred things a little."
A pause.
Someone laughed lightly, smoothing the moment—but Ava felt the shift. The way interest sharpened. The way curiosity leaned in.
Matthias did nothing.
Didn't speak. Didn't move. Didn't rescue her.
His silence pressed into her like a test.
Mrs. Whitmore changed tactics.
"Do you still keep in touch with friends from back then?"
"Yes," Ava said. "A few."
"Anyone significant?"
Ava's chest tightened.
She could feel it now—the narrowing corridor. Each question pushing her further forward, forcing her to choose between hesitation and exposure.
"There was one girl," Ava said. "From middle school."
From her middle school.
Not Aria's.
Matthias's fingers stilled against his glass.
Just for a moment.
Mrs. Whitmore's smile softened. "What was her name?"
Ava's heart stuttered.
Aria had never told her the names.
Never thought she'd need them.
The room felt suddenly too bright.
"I—" Ava began.
Her voice faltered.
Just slightly.
Matthias set his glass down.
The sound was quiet.
But it cut through the room.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm casually along the back of Ava's seat, close enough that his fingers brushed the fabric of her dress without quite touching her skin.
Every eye turned to him.
"Must we interrogate her like this?" Matthias said mildly. "She's not on trial."
A laugh rippled through the table, easing the tension—but Ava felt the shift immediately. The spotlight moved.
Mrs. Whitmore chuckled. "We're only getting to know her."
"I know," Matthias replied pleasantly. "But you're exhausting her."
His gaze flicked down to Ava—not protective.
Assessing.
"Besides," he added, "she's always been terrible under pressure."
A lie.
Delivered like truth.
Ava forced a small smile, letting her shoulders relax just enough to sell it.
Mrs. Whitmore studied them both, then sighed. "Perhaps we should let the poor girl breathe."
Relief washed through Ava so hard it almost made her dizzy.
The music began then—soft, elegant strings filling the room.
A distraction.
A lifeline.
Matthias stood.
He extended his hand to Ava.
"Dance with me."
It wasn't a request.
Ava hesitated, her fingers brushing against his as she placed her hand in his. The moment their palms met, a shiver ran up her arm—not fear, exactly, but awareness. Every eye in the room was still partially on them, and every heartbeat felt exaggerated.
Matthias didn't comment. He simply rested his other hand lightly at her waist and began to lead her onto the polished floor.
Ava's steps were uncertain at first. She had never danced formally like this, and her feet felt heavy and awkward against the smooth wood. A misstep made her stumble slightly, and she flushed, certain the whole room had noticed.
"Careful," Matthias murmured, his voice low, measured, meant only for her ears. His fingers pressed subtly against her back, correcting her posture without drawing attention. "Relax your shoulders. Move with me, not against me."
She tried, twisting her feet too quickly, and nearly collided with his knee. He steadied her instantly, a hand guiding her waist while the other held hers aloft. There was no warmth, no softness—only precise, deliberate control, as though he were moving her like a piece on a chessboard.
Ava swallowed, forcing her breath to even out. "I'm… sorry. I'm not very good at this," she admitted, her voice barely audible above the soft strings filling the room.
Matthias let out a faint, almost amused hum. "That's alright. No one expects perfection—especially not in front of an audience."
She blinked, unsure if he was mocking her or simply stating fact. Either way, she tried again, following his lead. His movements were smooth, practiced, confident. Every time she hesitated, he guided her subtly—tilting her hand, adjusting her step, leaning ever so slightly to keep their rhythm aligned.
With every correction, Ava felt both frustrated and impressed. He didn't make her feel incompetent. He made her feel like a dancer who had forgotten the steps—but could remember them with the right push.
The music swelled, the tempo rising just slightly, and Ava found herself moving with more confidence. Her steps still weren't perfect, but they were steady enough. She dared a glance at him. His face was unreadable, sharp eyes flicking over her, analyzing, judging—but never scolding.
"You're improving," he murmured. Not a compliment, not kindness—just observation.
Ava's heart thudded painfully. "I'm trying," she said, the words almost escaping as a breathy exhale.
He didn't respond immediately, only adjusted her hand ever so slightly, ensuring she followed his rhythm. Slowly, she felt herself relax into the flow, letting the music guide her instead of her panic.
"You don't pause before answering," he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear. "Aria never pauses."
"I… I was trying to be careful," Ava replied, keeping her voice low.
"That's the problem," he countered, voice steady, precise. "You try."
Ava's jaw tightened. "Then why help me?"
His fingers pressed a touch firmer against her waist, not forceful, just enough to assert control. "Because exposure tonight would be… inconvenient."
Not because he cared.
Not because he pitied her.
Because it didn't suit him.
Her steps faltered slightly, and he steadied her immediately, whispering just above the music, "Focus on the movement. Not them. Not anyone else. You and me."
She blinked, heart hammering, realizing that with every misstep, every small correction, she was learning more about him than anyone in that room could guess.
"You owe me now," he added softly, his lips brushing her ear as they turned in a gentle spin.
Ava swallowed hard. "For what?"
"For not letting them tear you apart," he said. "For redirecting the narrative."
The strings swelled, and Ava let herself finally move with the music, guided by Matthias's precise hands. Her clumsiness faded into a tentative grace—not natural, not fully comfortable—but enough to look composed from the outside.
She realized with a pang that this wasn't a dance. It was a lesson. A display. A reminder.
When the song drew to a close, Matthias released her hand, just enough to step back, but he leaned close and murmured:
"You did well. For a fake."
The word echoed in her mind as they returned to the table, each step measured, each motion watched by the relatives around them. Fake.
Ava forced her smile back into place. Relief and exhaustion tangled in her chest. The tension had lifted—for now—but the reminder of Matthias's control lingered, like a shadow she couldn't shake.
Sitting down, she realized with chilling clarity: he hadn't saved her out of kindness.
He had saved her because it suited him.
And whatever game he was playing, she was now fully on the board.
*****
Meanwhile in City B...
Night had fallen, and Aria lay on Ava's bed, staring at her phone. She had been sending message after message to Ava, desperate for a reply, but nothing came. A cold knot of worry twisted in her chest with every unanswered text.
A sharp knock on the door made her jump.
"Ava? Are you still awake?" Mrs. Brooks' voice called softly from the other side.
Ava froze.
"Umm… yes, Mom," she said, sitting up, her voice tight and uncertain.
Mrs. Brooks stepped inside, smiling gently. "Honey… can you tell me where you usually keep your jewelry box?" she asked casually.
Ava blinked, panic rising. Jewelry box? Where? She swallowed hard. She didn't know.
Her eyes darted around the medal-filled room, searching frantically, but the box was nowhere to be found. Her chest tightened. She was already stressed from what had happened at school with Zack, and now Ava's lack of replies gnawed at her further.
"Honey?" Mrs. Brooks called again, her tone patient but expectant.
A cold sweat prickled Aria's skin as the realization hit her like ice: if she couldn't find it, Mrs. Brooks would know something was wrong.
Damn....