Don didn’t let the silence linger. His gaze shifted from Claire to Jennifer, her smug smile angled like a blade toward someone who wasn’t even looking back. It irritated him more than it should have. Enough that he no longer cared to weigh the question of "is this my business?" He stepped forward. Not sudden, not hostile. Just smooth. Intentional. The air between them changed. His face set—not with a frown, but with a cold neutrality that left little room for interpretation. Declan noticed first, his half-hearted grin faltering as he met Don’s eyes. Jennifer followed, her lips curling around the edge of another laugh—only for it to die mid-breath when his gaze found hers. They didn’t understand why their laughter had paused. Why their stomachs pulled tight, or why their throats suddenly felt a shade drier. But their instincts did. The human body wasn’t built to argue with a predator’s stare. Don didn’t break eye contact as he spoke. His voice was polite, but his tone stripped bare of charm. "What does her former fiancé’s mistakes have to do with her?" The words landed like dropped glass. No raised volume, no flourish. Just clean, direct weight. Jennifer blinked, her lips parting slightly. Declan’s shoulders twitched. Don gave them less than a second before continuing. He turned slightly toward the older man, his words pointed with the same calmness. "More than that, I personally find it offensive that you would compare my character to someone in a negative light for no reason. Did I somehow offend you that you decided to insult me out of nowhere?" The phrasing was carefully chosen. Not a defense of Claire. Not a plea. Just the presentation of insult, stripped of its cover. He wasn’t standing up for her, not openly. He was standing up for himself—and leaving the rest unsaid. Declan’s expression faltered into something tight, uncomfortable. Jennifer’s smile, still half-formed, soured into a faint frown as if the words had tugged a thread too hard. The silence turned jagged. Jennifer’s eyes flicked toward Declan as though expecting him to speak, but his hesitation betrayed him. He didn’t know where to place himself—between his wife’s barb and Don’s stare, neither option looked survivable. Behind him, Don heard Claire breathe differently. Less strained. Her control wasn’t perfect—he could pick up the faint change—but it was enough. Eyes were on them now. From the lounge, the staircase, scattered pairs nearby. The sound of chatter continued, but not in this corner. Here, it had thinned, leaving the faint clicks of glasses and shoes crossing tile. tik~ clink~ Don let it hang a second longer, then shifted his focus. His tone softened, but his gaze didn’t. "Anyway," he said, angling his words toward Declan, "you seem respectable. So let’s not escalate this beyond what it is. An apology is all it takes." Jennifer’s frown deepened, the edge of protest already forming in her throat. Don could see it—the spark of stubbornness that wasn’t entirely extinguished by his stare. She wanted to push back. Even under the pull of instincts telling her not to. But Declan moved first. He forced a laugh, too fast, too shallow. hahh~ He nodded, the motion clipped. "Ahem—yes, you’re right. Do forgive us. I think we’ve both had too much to drink, and it’s led to us... overstepping our attempts at humor. Right, darling?" His glance at Jennifer was firm in its own way—an appeal wrapped in pressure. She stared back at him. For a heartbeat, her pride dug in, visibly unwilling to yield. But with her husband already retreating, with eyes on her from more directions than she could count, she knew what clinging too tightly would make her look like. Her lips drew into a forced smile. The words weren’t apology. They weren’t meant to be. Her arm brushed Declan’s lightly as she turned, voice pitching louder as she walked past Don and Claire without another glance. "I think it’s best we take our leave now, dear. Perhaps I’ve had too much wine." Declan followed quickly, murmuring a final, "Excuse us," before trailing after her into the crowd. Don didn’t watch them go. His eyes remained level, his posture steady until they were gone from sight. Then, in the corner of his vision— [Side Objective Complete: Stand Your Ground] Reward Unlocked: Trait – Not to be Messed With Effect: Presence gain when confronted. Those who meet your gaze or direct hostility toward you are 20% more likely to hesitate, second-guess, or withdraw. Stacking: Effects combine with Aura-based skills. Limitations: Works best in direct social confrontation. Reduced effect on individuals with strong willpower, authority, or immunity to intimidation. Jennifer’s heels struck briskly against the marble as she disappeared into the current of guests, Declan trailing behind with the look of a man relieved to have survived something he didn’t understand. The System’s fading prompt was still fresh in the corner of Don’s mind when Claire finally spoke. "Thank you for that." Her tone was smooth. Not warm, not sharp—simply measured. Like nothing in the last few minutes had been designed to scrape at her composure. Don turned his head, studying her as she moved closer, her posture steady as if reclaiming lost ground. She adjusted her stance slightly beside him, the faint shift in weight elegant. Still radiating control. Still Claire. Her gaze lingered in the direction Jennifer and Declan had gone. "She brought up a rather sensitive topic of mine," she continued, each word precise. "And I found it difficult to reply without..." "Making her regret it?" Don finished. This time, she turned. Her eyes met his, and for the first time since the exchange, her expression shifted. A faint smile, so small it might have been overlooked by anyone not paying attention. "If I had replied," she said, "I’m sure both parties would have left with regrets. You handled it better than I would have." Don didn’t downplay the praise. Didn’t pretend it wasn’t earned. His lips tugged into a smile of his own. "Just trying to do my best as your partner for the evening." Her smile widened, still faint but no longer restrained. She stepped closer and locked her hand through his arm in the practiced way of companions at such gatherings. The movement was graceful, seamless—yet for Don it carried the weight of acknowledgment. He received her without hesitation. "You’re doing more than well, I’d say," she murmured. Then, with her poise neatly restored, "Now then. Let us carry on our way." Find the newest release on novel fire.net And just like that, the masks were back in place. The two of them rejoined the steady churn of conversation and champagne. Time slipped forward. Conversation after conversation blurred together—handshakes, nods, pleasantries spoken with the same rhythm. A few exchanges were worth the time. Most weren’t. Some were sidestepped entirely, Claire’s intuition moving them out of reach before anyone could corner them with empty talk. Eventually, the night’s centerpiece arrived. The governor and mayor—both dressed to the teeth, both smiling with the ease of men who’d long since traded sincerity for performance—took the stage near the grand staircase. The crowd’s hum dimmed into orchestrated silence. Their speeches were everything Don expected. Scripted, polished, shallow. A glaze of gratitude toward their donors and backers, followed by a hollow embrace of whatever cause the gala had been nominally built upon. The words meant nothing, but they stretched on anyway. Claire didn’t flinch through it, though Don could sense her patience thinning. When the speeches ended, the room reanimated. Donors surged forward to shake hands, to secure photographs, to be seen. Event photographers snapped endlessly. click~ click~ click~ Commissioner Bateman was among the crowd now, his expression stiff, as though every second in this environment was a second too long. By the time the applause had died down, Claire’s limit had arrived. She sighed quietly, though to Don’s ears it was as clear as anything. "I think we can leave now," she said, her voice just above the surrounding shuffle of guests and flashes. Don was already half-prepared to agree when it happened. A cameraman in the press cluster turned his head, scanning the crowd for something fresher than the usual faces. His eyes landed on Don instantly, the recognition unmistakable. Neither Don nor Claire noticed. She had placed her hand lightly over his as they began to angle toward the exit, the two of them moving with natural ease through the tide of bodies. The cameraman shifted his footing, raising his camera as if adjusting for a better angle on the staircase. Then— A handful of shots captured them mid-departure, her hand resting on his, their stride aligned as though rehearsed. The flashes vanished into the noise, unnoticed in the moment. But they’d be noticed later.