Don let a smile creep across his face at her question but held back from answering in kind. "I feel like if I respond," he said, eyes still on the slow procession of cars ahead, "your replies will just... get more cheeky." Claire’s brow lifted, her lips pulling into a smile that showed she was far from done. "You find my responses cheeky, am I?" Don spared her a glance, one corner of his mouth tugging upward. "You don’t?" Her laugh was quiet, the sound rolling easily from her before she turned her gaze back out the window. "You’re getting bolder. In the right ways, at least." He chuckled, adjusting his grip on the wheel as the Mustang crept forward another few feet. "Thank you. And you’re getting far more sarcastic, it seems." She tilted her chin slightly upward, her tone reflective but sly. "Hmm... perhaps my dear Sylvia’s mannerisms are rubbing off on me. Or it’s from far too many dealings with less than ideal people." Don raised a brow. "In the courts?" Claire’s next laugh had a sharper edge, smooth but carrying something venomous beneath it. "No, dear. I meant in my other business pursuits. I pride myself on rarely setting foot in courtrooms. If I can help it, I settle things well before they’re left to the whims of some pristine judge and his flatbread jury." The disdain in her words wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Elegant poison. Don felt a faint tug of warning in his mind—another reminder that her polished exterior hid blades—but it didn’t stop him from pressing. "If you feel that way about the courts," he said with calm curiosity, "I can’t imagine how you feel about the pursuits themselves." Official source is NoveI★Fire.net Her expression soured, but not with offense. More like a woman recalling a bitter taste she’d grown accustomed to. "Oh, do not get me started. The pursuits themselves I enjoy. But as I’m sure you’re already beginning to understand, operating well in business means endless dealings with unsavory individuals." The Mustang rolled another few feet forward with the line. Don hummed lightly, his tone easy. "Now I’m even more curious. Who knows, I might learn something." She scoffed, feigning a wounded pride. "Using my misery as a platform for education, tsk... you truly are a troublesome boy." But her amusement lingered as she added, "Fine, I suppose. We have some time. And it would do you well to understand a few things." From there, she slipped effortlessly into anecdotes—not idle chatter, but precise recollections, each one revealing another piece of how the city truly worked. She spoke of zoning permits that could be bought and sold like chips at a card table, as long as the right official’s appetite was fed. Of import licenses that passed quicker through the system if a certain firm handled the paperwork—one whose fees were inflated not for service, but for silence. She mentioned contracts for city infrastructure, where the competition was less about bids and more about who could afford the proper "arrangements" in the mayor’s office. Her tone throughout was calm, measured, almost academic, but the edges of disdain remained when she spoke of the players involved. Don let her words sink in, asking the occasional question with a deliberate politeness that kept her talking. He made no attempt to disguise the fact he was listening carefully, committing every detail to memory. The line moved again, the cars ahead pulling closer to the floodlit gates. The ironwork was tall, the lamps above casting a soft glow that stretched across the polished hoods of the waiting vehicles. Even as they approached, Claire didn’t pause her story. Her voice carried easily over the low rumble of the Mustang’s engine, spilling truths that most people would never hear in daylight. The Mustang rolled up the final stretch, blending into the line of cars before them. Valets moved briskly across the drive, their black uniforms crisp, gestures polished to near-theatrical precision. Guests who had already arrived were ushered with care—waiters and waitresses in tailored attire greeted them at the entrance, silver trays balanced effortlessly as they offered drinks that shimmered in the fading light. Don barely gave it more thought than necessary. Miss Claire, on the other hand, wore the look of someone for whom this entire spectacle was second nature. She didn’t pause to admire, didn’t comment—just handed her purse briefly to a waiting attendant, gave the valet the faintest nod, and let herself be guided forward with Don at her side. Luckily, none of the people she deemed important enough to engage had arrived yet. Which left them with time to spare. The garden stretched wide around the residence, lamps casting muted golden light across trimmed hedges and marble paths. Don and Claire ended up at a seating area set beside a large pond, its surface catching scattered reflections of both lamps and fading sky. Ducks floated lazily across, and koi traced the shallows just beneath, their movements occasionally rippling the still water. The place wasn’t empty. Small groups dotted the grounds—two suited men locked in hushed conversation, a pair of women in elaborate evening gowns sipping champagne, and a cluster of teens with distracted expressions, already glued to their phones. Younger children chased each other near the edge of the path, their laughter thin against the drone of faint music playing from somewhere deeper in the property. Claire had drifted toward the marble railing by the pond. She leaned lightly against it, one hand raised as smoke curled upward from the cigarette between her fingers. The other hand rested neatly on the rail. Don, meanwhile, stayed close but with his back to the stone, his eyes flicking across the scenery, occasionally lingering on her as she spoke. His posture was casual—arms folded one moment, hands in pockets the next, or resting briefly on the railing behind him. By now, the sun had fully disappeared, leaving the garden in a cool dusk softened by the lamps. Yet there was no romance to it—at least not in the obvious sense. No one commented on the beauty of the view. The mood was quieter, more matter-of-fact. As Claire spoke—dispassionately recounting more of her encounters in the city, each anecdote folded with the weight of experience—Don felt something click in his mind. This wasn’t novelty to her. It wasn’t spectacle. She was so used to all of it: the wealth, the orchestrated luxury, the artificial courtesies. If anything, she seemed half-distant from it, like someone stuck inside a performance too long to be entertained by it anymore. The more he listened, the clearer it became—his road ahead wouldn’t be easy unless he chose shortcuts. And the main path? It looked far more dangerous. He wasn’t sure which was worse. Claire broke the thread herself. She crushed the cigarette’s end against the cold marble, leaving behind a faint blackened smear before carefully folding the remains into a small wet wipe from her purse. Another was used to clean her hands, both wrapped neatly together and slipped back inside. "That brings us," she said evenly, "to where we are. Would you believe all this wealth was acquired by the mayor during his tenure? And no one bats an eye." Don glanced toward the manor, its floodlit exterior shining like some monument. His reply was simple, direct. "Why is that? That’s too blatant to just be called corruption." Claire let out a low chuckle, her expression softening just enough to show amusement. "You’re right. That’s why it’s simply called business." Don’s mouth curved into a faint smile. "So that’s the point of all this. Business." "Yes." Her gaze swept across the garden, indifferent to its beauty. "Allies, enemies, prospects, rivals... gathered in one place, under the guise of some laughable cause." She sighed, her eyes drifting toward the children playing nearby. Their laughter rang out again, light but disconnected from the gravity around them. For the first time that evening, something almost vulnerable touched her words. "Poor little things. They can’t imagine how cutthroat all this really is. And unfortunately, they’re being raised to become the same." She didn’t wear sympathy on her face—her expression was too controlled for that—but the tone gave her away. For a moment, she seemed caught in thought, distant, as though weighing something unspoken. Don’s voice cut through gently. "Well, all the more reason Sylvia’s lucky she has you. And it tells me not everyone here is..." He searched for the right phrasing before settling on, "...a monster dressed in silk." That earned him a faint, genuine smile from her. "I suppose you’re right." Then, with a small push away from the railing, she straightened, slipping her purse back into position against her side. "Well then. Let us return to the main area. Most guests should be arriving by now." Don gave one last glance at the children before moving with her, the sound of distant laughter trailing them as they left the pond behind.