Don turned his head the moment the voice echoed through the marble hall. From the base of the staircases, his eyes lifted upward—and there she was. Miss Claire stood poised at the top landing, framed by the sweep of carved banisters and the glow of chandeliers. She wore a black evening dress, trimmed with gold along its lines, the cut accentuating her figure with deliberate restraint rather than indulgence. Lace leggings traced faint patterns down her legs, vanishing neatly into black heels. Around her neck sat a string of pearls, balanced by other touches of jewelry that didn’t overwhelm but instead sharpened the ensemble—a faint shimmer of rings, a thin gold bracelet. A small black purse hung easily from her hand. Her hair had been styled straight, falling like dark silk to her shoulders, without the rigid sculpting that often accompanied formal attire. Effortless, but deliberate. The light above caught her at all the right angles. Don’s expression didn’t shift much—no widening eyes, no overly obvious approval. He simply followed her with his gaze as she began her descent along the right staircase. The older maid at his side was far less restrained. "My, my," Margaret said, her British lilt even smoother than before. "You look wonderful, M’lady." A small smile touched Miss Claire’s lips as she looked briefly toward her. "Thank you, Margaret. Though I’ve yet to see an instance where I don’t look good in your eyes." The remark carried a faint thread of humor, just enough to soften its edge. Margaret chuckled lightly, replying with the same playfulness, "That simply means you are consistent in keeping your appearance ever amazing, M’lady." Her laughter was soft and knowing as Claire reached the bottom steps. But then the maid’s eyes flicked toward Don, and she cleared her throat in a deliberate, almost guiding way. "Perhaps you would appreciate a more unbiased opinion from your partner this evening." Miss Claire’s smile grew a fraction wider at the suggestion, her gaze sliding back to Don. "Well, Mr. Bright? Do you approve of my attire this evening?" Don hadn’t expected her to ask—not , not so casually. He’d braced himself for more formality, some distant politeness befitting the grandeur of the place. Instead, it felt like a normal interaction, only dressed in marble and chandeliers. He didn’t let the pause stretch. His lips curved faintly as he answered, "I think you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who disapproves." Margaret chuckled again, her nod approving. "Agreed." Miss Claire’s heels touched the final step, the dress shifting slightly as she came to stand beside them both. "Then I shall trust in your judgment," she said, her voice carrying that same calm finality as if the matter were closed. She glanced at the slim watch around her wrist. "Well, I think it’s best we leave now." Margaret inclined her head, hands folded neatly in front of her. "Of course. I hope you have a wonderful evening." Claire’s gaze lifted from her watch, her tone warm but contained. "Thank you, Margaret." Her attention then shifted to Don. "Shall we? I hope you don’t mind, but I’d still like it if we used your vehicle." "No problem," Don said easily. He turned slightly toward the maid, offering her the same courtesy. "Thank you for the tour, Miss Margaret. Enjoy the rest of your evening." Her bow of the head was precise, identical to the one she’d given Claire. "You are most welcome." With that, Don pivoted back, the echo of his steps falling in rhythm with Claire’s as they began to walk away side by side. The hall behind them slowly swallowed the older woman’s presence, leaving only the two of them moving toward the door. Roughly thirty minutes later, the Mustang rolled into another world. The mayoral residence was set deep within an enclave not unlike Chanel Hills, though immediately it was clear this was a step above. Fewer homes, larger estates. Each lot swallowed whole by its high fences—stone, wrought iron, or hedges thick enough to be walls. It was the kind of neighborhood where privacy wasn’t a luxury but an ironclad expectation. Don didn’t bother sizing up each mansion they passed. He kept his hands on the wheel, the radio low, letting the hum of some indifferent jazz track fill the silence. Claire hadn’t said a word the entire drive, and he hadn’t found an opening worth exploiting. The road bent right, narrowing slightly. Ahead, the signs of the gala finally appeared: a slow procession of luxury vehicles queuing toward a guarded gate. Their polished exteriors caught the last light of the sun—sleek shadows of wealth lined up for approval. "That’s the one," Claire murmured at last. Her voice was low, steady, but it broke the silence like a pebble into still water. Don gave a short nod and eased the Mustang behind the car ahead, a black Rolls Royce Cullinan, its custom plate gleaming smugly under the streetlamps. The line inched forward. "It’s a good thing we’ve arrived early," Claire continued, her tone turning conversational, though her eyes stayed fixed forward. "The queues for such events are always stupidly long. I can’t imagine what they’ll be like once the sun sets, considering even the governor will be in attendance." Don didn’t care much for the logistics of social gatherings, but this was something he could work with. He let his gaze drift for a moment, the setting sun bleeding gold through the windshield, cutting across the dashboard, across her. It made her look almost unreal. He caught himself staring—longer than intended. Claire noticed. Her head turned slightly, her eyes meeting his with a calm inquiry. "Is something the matter?" The words slipped out of him before he could calculate them. "You just look really beautiful from this angle. Sorry for staring." Silence lingered. Then the strangest thing happened—Claire’s composure shifted. Not dramatically, but enough. Her expression slipped, just slightly. Surprise. A tiny fracture in the mask she wore so well. "Oh," she murmured, the sound caught halfway between thought and voice. For once, her tone wasn’t polished steel but hesitant, uncharacteristically unsure. She looked back at him briefly, then away again. "Well... you look rather dashing as well. For a young man." It was fleeting, but Don noticed it clearly—uncertainty. Hesitation. Something he hadn’t expected to ever see in her. Before he could decide how to respond, her purse buzzed sharply against the leather seat. bzzt~ Both their attention shifted instantly. She reached in, sliding her phone out with a practiced ease. Don’s glance lingered for half a second before the Cullinan in front of them rolled forward, and he returned his focus to the wheel. The Mustang’s engine purred low as they followed. vrmm~ "Oh?" Claire said, eyes scanning her screen. "It’s Sylvia. She says she’s on her way back to your home—that I’ll find her there." "Hm." Don kept his eyes on the line of cars crawling toward the gate. "Does that mean we should head back there too after we’re done for the evening?" She tilted her head faintly upward, lips pressed as though weighing the thought. Then, turning her gaze sideways just enough, she answered in her usual calm tone, "Let’s decide later in the evening which is more appropriate." Don gave a small nod, but before he could speak further, something in the corner of his eye caught him. A flicker of movement outside, near the edges of the high fences on his right. He turned his head toward the window. The Mustang rolled forward slowly with the rest of the queue, the soft purr of its engine blending into the muffled sounds of distant conversation and the faint rush of the sea somewhere beyond the neighborhood. Don had his window cracked, letting in the cool air, while Claire’s was lowered all the way, her cigarette smoke long gone but the scent of it still lingering faintly. That was when Don caught sight of them. Three boys—teens, maybe sixteen or seventeen—hovering near the edge of the street just past the fencing. Each one had their phone in hand, screens already lit and pointed at themselves. Their voices carried with that exaggerated enthusiasm of content creators, loud enough to be heard over the hum of traffic. "Yo guys, check this out—we’re at the biggest event in the city right now!" one declared into his front-facing camera, a tall, lanky kid in ripped jeans and a designer hoodie two sizes too big, his baseball cap angled sideways like it had been placed that way by committee. His friend beside him wore a neon windbreaker that seemed purposefully chosen to clash with his bright pink sneakers. He was already narrating into his mic as if the world couldn’t wait: "Luxury cars rolling in right now, we’re talking millions on wheels. Stay tuned, ’cause we’re catching it live for you guys." The third, shorter and stockier, had dyed his hair bleach-blond at home, uneven in patches, and was alternating between filming the cars and hyping the others with "bro, bro, bro, look at that one!" They moved like a unit, all energy and constant motion, tripping over each other’s words in an endless stream meant more for the feed than for themselves. It didn’t take long before the one in the oversized hoodie darted closer, stepping right up toward Don’s side of the car. His phone was raised, camera pointed at himself and the Mustang behind him. "Hello sir!" he said with an overeager smile, voice pitched high with excitement. "This is an amazing car. Can I ask what you do for a liv—" The boy’s words froze. His gaze, meant for the tuxedo and the classic car, finally settled on Don’s face. Recognition struck instantly. Even in formal wear, Don’s features were too well known. His face had been everywhere—on news broadcasts, grainy security footage, angry headlines screaming of the night where "hundreds died." The city had branded him a specter long before this gala. The boy’s mouth went dry. His practiced, cheerful patter shattered as his stomach dropped. His camera wobbled in his hand. "Uh—I mean—I just wanted to say you have a nice car, sir!" The words tumbled out fast, panicked, the excitement gone. Without waiting for acknowledgment, the kid spun on his heel and bolted back toward his friends, his sneakers slapping against the pavement. tap-tap-tap "Come on, let’s go!" he hissed at them, his voice a frantic whisper now. "Shit, do you know who that is?! Fuck, man—" The three disappeared into the dark edges of the street, phones still in hand, but no longer recording. Don watched them retreat with a perplexed look, one brow raised as if unsure whether to be annoyed, amused, or just indifferent. That was when he heard it. A low, unmistakable chuckle from the passenger seat. Turning, he found Claire looking at him, her expression softened into something rare—a smile visible enough to be undeniable. Her eyes carried amusement, but also that quiet sharpness she never seemed to lose. The source of thɪs content is novelꞁire.net "It seems you have a talent," she said, voice smooth, "for causing troublesome boys to retreat." Don’s lips curved faintly as he tilted his head. "Does that mean you have a talent for attracting troublesome boys?" Her chuckle deepened, a sound halfway between playful and knowing. She raised one brow and gave him a sidelong glance, her words lighter than usual, yet still edged with her coolness. "Does that include you?" The line lingered between them, hanging in the cool evening air.