The banquet had moved into its deeper rhythms. Wine flowed more freely now, the belly dancers had retreated, and conversations sharpened into smaller, denser knots across the grand hall. Cigarette smoke curled above chandeliers, catching the amber glow of candles. The air was thick not just with perfume and cigar ash, but with suspicion—every smile seemed forced, every laugh calculated.
Imel sat rigidly, his eyes occasionally flicking toward Heydrich, who had settled beside him with the elegance of a snake coiling at a fire's edge. Eichmann hovered near, his face unreadable, but Müller's presence across the hall, his jaw tightening as he whispered to subordinates, suggested lines of loyalty were already blurring. Reichenau sat quietly with Brenner at his side, watching the SS officers like a wolf watching rival predators encroach on his hunting ground.
Lucy sat near Riefenstahl, who exuded effortless power—every time a soldier, officer, or politician approached, Riefenstahl's smile disarmed them, her touch on an arm or a word of praise binding them like spellbound children. But Lucy noticed that Riefenstahl's hand brushed against her thigh more than once, deliberate yet subtle, as though testing her. Lucy's chest tightened; she wasn't sure if it was fear, excitement, or both.
The Restroom Interlude
At one point, Riefenstahl leaned close, her breath warm against Lucy's ear, and whispered, "Komm, wir müssen uns frisch machen." Come, we must freshen up. She rose gracefully, signaling Lucy to follow.
They slipped through the crowded banquet hall toward the lavish restrooms. Gold-framed mirrors, porcelain basins, and marble floors gleamed under low light. Riefenstahl locked the door behind them, the sound echoing like a gunshot in Lucy's chest.
"Do you know," Riefenstahl murmured, her hands brushing down Lucy's arms, "in this world, appearances are everything. But in private…" she paused, her lips almost touching Lucy's ear, "…we can allow ourselves truths."
Lucy froze as Riefenstahl's body pressed against hers, the director's perfume—jasmine and smoke—enveloping her. She kissed Lucy with sudden force, not asking but claiming. Lucy, breathless, found herself responding despite every warning in her mind. The stall became their hiding place, Riefenstahl's hands pulling Lucy deeper, her voice low, commanding, coaxing.
For Lucy, it was a collision of worlds—revulsion at touching someone so entwined within the Nazi machine, but also hunger for connection, for survival, for control of her own body in a place where she had none. Riefenstahl whispered praise, promises of making her a star, of lifting her above the shadows if she surrendered. Lucy's head spun. She yielded, trembling, until her body betrayed her restraint. As she agreed to Riefenstahl proposal, Riefenstahl said good as she pulled down her panties, and hung them up, as Riefenstahl lifted up her dress while pushing Lucy down to her knees, and with a commanding tone told Lucy to "eat it" and Lucy did. While Riefenstahl did her best to hold back her moans, grabbing Lucy's head pushing it further in. Praising Lucy in German as Lucy continued sucking, until Riefenstahl squirted on Lucy's face. As she fell back onto the seat in the stall.
When it was over, they lingered, foreheads pressed together in silence. Riefenstahl smiled with feline satisfaction, while Lucy wrestled with guilt and exhilaration. Then, with the same composure she wore on stage, Riefenstahl straightened her fox fur coat, touched up her lipstick, and unlocked the door. "Remember," she said softly, "what we share here never leaves this room. But it binds us."
Lucy followed, her steps shaky, her heart pounding louder than the orchestra outside.
Heydrich and Imel
Back in the banquet hall, Heydrich leaned forward, his sharp features gleaming under candlelight, his eyes fixed on Imel.
"You know, Obergruppenführer," Heydrich began in a voice low enough that only Imel could hear, "I've heard whispers that your presence here in Paris is… not entirely what it appears. Inspections, oversight—yes, that is the surface. But men like you, like me—we rarely travel without deeper purposes."
Imel met his gaze without blinking. "And what do you imagine my purpose to be, Herr Heydrich?"
Heydrich smirked. "I imagine it has to do with the Pacific. The Japanese are proud, but brittle. And Berlin has interests there that are not… public knowledge. You would not be here, with Himmler's personal blessing, if it were otherwise."
Imel leaned back, sipping his wine, masking the fire burning beneath his calm exterior. "Whispers are dangerous things, Reinhard. They tend to end in the wrong ears."
Heydrich chuckled softly. "And yet, sometimes, whispers are all that keep men like us alive." He raised his glass, eyes glittering. "To secrets, Obergruppenführer. May they keep us powerful."
Imel raised his glass in return, but inside he felt the weight of Heydrich's suspicion. The man was circling him like a predator testing weaknesses.
Müller and Eichmann
Elsewhere, Heinrich Müller's temper was barely contained. He cornered Eichmann near the edge of the banquet hall, gripping his arm hard enough to make Eichmann wince.
"You will explain to me," Müller hissed, "why I was not informed of Heydrich's arrival. You think because you serve his desk you forget who you really serve? The Gestapo does not take kindly to being left blind."
Eichmann tried to steady his voice. "He travels with little notice, you know this. He trusts only a handful of us. I could not—"
Müller interrupted, his voice sharp. "Do not lie to me, Adolf. You forget yourself. You are a functionary, a clerk with blood on his hands but no power of his own. If you choose to be Heydrich's shadow and not mine, you will find yourself crushed beneath both."
Eichmann nodded stiffly, humiliated, his eyes flicking toward Heydrich across the hall. Müller released him with a shove, muttering under his breath, "Scheiß Verräter." Traitor.
The Banquet Shifts
By now, the banquet's tone had darkened. Conversations were hushed, laughter brittle. The music carried on, but the air vibrated with hidden tension. Imel scanned the room, noting alliances forming, rivalries sharpening. Riefenstahl returned with Lucy, her expression glowing, though Lucy's cheeks were flushed with something more complicated. Reichenau whispered to Brenner, noting every SS face, his suspicion hardening.
And Heydrich—always smiling, always calculating—sat at Imel's table as though he owned the room, his presence alone reshaping the balance of power.
The banquet was no longer a celebration. It was a battlefield, and every glance, every word, was a weapon.