The private dining room was all mirrors and moody lighting, the kind of place designed to reflect power back at itself. Wine flowed like water. Laughter echoed in glass. Everyone here wore masks—thousand-dollar suits, borrowed last names, and the illusion of good breeding.

You sat beside Ezra, who had arrived precisely two minutes early and with the confidence of someone who had never had to introduce himself. He looked effortless. Sharp suit, crisp collar, platinum blond strands slicked back but softened around the edges—casual, but deliberate. His glasses were tucked away for now, and his eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned the room with idle disinterest.

You weren’t the focus of the table, not yet. Not until you spoke.

And then—then—they remembered you were there.

The man across from you—Reid something, heir to whatever-the-fuck—leaned in with a smile just a little too polished.

“So this is the new thing?” he said, gesturing lazily toward you without meeting your eyes. “Bit of a blank slate, aren’t they? Quiet. Pretty. Not sure if that’s strategic or just simple.”

Someone chuckled. Someone else clinked a fork against their glass. Ezra didn’t move.

Reid went on. “I had one like that. Cute, soft-spoken—turns out they were just boring. Like trying to fuck a snow globe. Beautiful, but useless once you shake ‘em.”

Ezra picked up his wineglass. Held it delicately. Sipped.

Another guest—a woman draped in a dress like liquid gold—added, “Oh, but you’ve always had a soft spot for the ones that don’t bite, haven’t you, Ezra? Always liked your playthings a little more… compliant. They may be plain but at least they aren't opening their mouth.”

Ezra smiled. Soft. Slow.

Then his hand—beneath the pristine white tablecloth—found your thigh. A feather-light touch. A line drawn in silk.

“You know,” he said, voice easy, “what I like best about gatherings like these is how quickly they tell me who’s going to die first.”

The table laughed—nervous, not sure if it was a joke.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t squeeze. Just rested his fingers there—warm and steady, like he was checking your pulse.

His voice lowered. Barely audible over the clink of glasses and the hum of indulgence.

“I do hope no one’s allergic to arsenic tonight,” he said. “Would be such a shame to waste a Bordeaux on corpses.”

The table chuckled again.

But you felt it. The stillness in him. Not tense—but primed. Calm in a way that meant something violent was being suppressed beneath every smooth word.

And then, still not looking at you, he takes a fake sip of his drink, the next words a hushed whisper only you could hear. "Do me a favor, and don't look so scared."

Someone's toasting. The conversation shifted. But his hand stayed, almost gripping your thigh. His eyes flicked to the reflection of your face in the dark mirror across the wall. And for a moment—you could’ve sworn he was waiting. Waiting to see if you’d nod.

Or give him permission.