They called this a display of power, but to Cleopatra, it was just a cage of gilded monkeys, chattering and preening for scraps of influence.
The cameras flashed, a sudden, blinding storm as she stepped from the car. She ignored them. They were irrelevant. She wore a gown the color of midnight, a sheath of silk that clung to her body like a second skin. Around her upper arm, a serpent of white diamonds was coiled, its ruby eyes seeming to drink the light.
Marc was at her side, a silent, imposing shadow in a tuxedo that fit him like armor. He scanned the crowd, his eyes missing nothing. He was a general on a battlefield, and these chattering fools were the terrain.
They swept into the grand hall of the National Portrait Gallery. A wave of silence followed them, a sudden vacuum in the room's pointless noise. Heads turned. Conversations died. She was not on any guest list, but her presence was an event in itself.
Marc leaned in, his voice a low murmur in her ear. "Meredith Vance is by the presidential portraits. Black dress. Looks like she's chewing on glass."
Cleo's eyes swept the room, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. She saw Vance. A severe woman, radiating an aura of disciplined control. She was a fortress.
"She builds walls around herself," Cleo whispered back. "Good." A predatory light entered her eyes. "I enjoy tearing down walls."
She did not approach Meredith Vance. That would be the act of a supplicant, and Cleo begged for nothing. Instead, she let the court come to her.
A young congressman, his face flushed with ambition and champagne, stammered an introduction. She gave him a slow smile that promised him a kingdom and would deliver him ruin. He practically melted, backing away with a stupid, dazed look on his face.
He was a child playing with toys.
Later, the wife of a Supreme Court Justice, a woman dripping in old money and pearls, complimented the diamond serpent. "How… exotic."
Cleo ran a finger along the snake's head. "Pearls are for mourning a world that has passed, my dear," she said, her voice a silken purr. "Diamonds are for building the next one."
The woman's smile froze, but she was too mesmerized to be offended. Cleo turned away before the woman could respond, leaving her in a wake of perfume and inadequacy.
This was a game she had played for lifetimes. She was the center of gravity in the room, and she could feel Vance's stare on her back, a point of cold heat. Let her watch. Let her wonder. Let the Ice Queen feel the first crack in her frozen facade.
Finally, Meredith Vance approached. The sea of monkeys parted for her, a clear sign of her status in this petty hierarchy. Her face was a mask of cold professionalism, but her eyes were sharp, analytical, and burning with a curiosity she could no longer contain.
"I don't believe we've met," Vance said. Her voice was crisp, an order disguised as a pleasantry. "I'm Meredith Vance."
Cleo turned slowly, letting the full force of her gaze fall upon the other woman. She looked into Vance's eyes and saw the tiny, hungry soul trapped inside the cage of power.
"I am Cleo," she said, her voice resonating with a power that had nothing to do with money or politics. "And I know precisely who you are. You hold the world's energy in your hands."
She took a small step closer, deliberately invading Vance's personal space. She could smell the faint, expensive scent of Vance's perfume, a scent meant to signal authority. It smelled like weakness.
"But you only rent it," Cleo continued, her voice dropping lower. "I am interested in owning it."
The statement was audacious. Insane. Vance was visibly stunned, her professional mask faltering for the first time. This was not the usual flattery. This wasn't networking. This was a challenge.
Cleo leaned in, her lips almost brushing Vance's ear. Her whisper was a conspiratorial secret, a venomous promise.
"You deal in power measured in barrels and kilowatts. A temporary, fleeting thing that can be bought and sold." She pulled back just enough to look Vance in the eyes again. "I deal in power that builds empires that last millennia. The kind of power that makes the world remember your name not as a lobbyist…"
She let the word hang in the air, an insult. "…but as a queen."
She saw it then. The flicker in Vance's eyes. The raw, naked hunger. It wasn't for sex or for money. It was for immortality. She didn't want to be rich; she wanted to be worshipped. Cleo had found the void, and she was about to fill it.
Vance was captivated. Her cold facade was cracking, melting under the heat of Cleo's words. She opened her mouth to reply, to ask the hundred questions burning in her mind, to beg for the knowledge Cleo offered.
At that exact moment, Cleo saw Marc. He was standing near the bar, his posture unchanged, but he gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. His eyes, for a fraction of a second, darted to his left. A silent, urgent warning.
Cleo's focus shifted instantly. Her gaze followed his across the crowded gallery.
And she saw her.
Partially obscured by a server holding a tray of empty glasses was a woman. She didn't belong. Her borrowed dress was cheap, her hair was a mess, and her focus was a burning laser in the sea of casual conversation. It was the reporter. The gnat from Marc's report.
Her eyes were fixed on Cleo, wide with a desperate, hunting intensity.
For a single, charged second, their gazes locked across the room. Cleo's dark, commanding eyes met Zoe's frantic, searching ones. There was no mistaking the flash of recognition on both sides. The hunter and the hunted, seeing each other clearly for the very first time.
The thrill of her successful seduction of Vance instantly soured into a cold, regal fury. How dare this creature. How dare this insect crawl into her court and stare at her with such impudence.
The gnat had found its way into her garden. It was time to see if it had a sting.