Morning drags its feet when it comes.
I don't remember falling asleep. At some point exhaustion must have won, though it doesn't feel like victory. My dreams were full of footsteps outside the door and voices I couldn't place—low, male, too close. Every sound in the room felt magnified, as if the estate itself had ears.
A soft knock wakes me fully.
Not the commanding knock from the emissary.Not the measured one that brought the heirs.
This one is… polite.
"Miss Quinn?" A woman's voice. Warm. Older. "Are you decent?"
I blink at the ceiling. "I think so."
The door opens a crack, and she steps in—mid-fifties, hair pinned neatly, uniform in muted gray. Her posture is straight, but her face carries lines that look more like humanity than authority. A relief I didn't know I needed.
"I'm Mara," she says. "Assigned to assist you while you're on Council grounds."
Not a maid. Not a servant. An overseer softened into something domestic.
"Assist me with what?" I ask.
"Preparing for your morning rotation."
That word sends unease across my skin. "Rotation?"
She nods gently. "It's a small gathering. Controlled. You'll meet sector delegates. Not the heirs."
A lie dressed up as courtesy.
I sit up slowly, the blanket sliding off my legs. "What exactly am I expected to do?"
"Be observed," she says, honest in a way no one else here has been. "And survive it."
The knot in my stomach tightens.
She brings in a tray—fruit, tea, something warm that smells like cinnamon. It's the first real food I've seen since yesterday, and suddenly my body remembers hunger. But eating here feels like letting the estate win.
Still… I force a few bites down.
Mara lays a dress beside me—navy, understated, sleeveless, with a soft fall of fabric at the waist.
"This is for today," she says. "Simple. Elegant. Non-threatening."
I almost laugh. "Am I supposed to be threatening?"
Her expression flickers. "Only if you want to be."
Her honesty unsettles me more than poetry or threats could have.
"Get dressed," she says softly. "I'll wait outside."
When she leaves, the room shifts again—quiet, expectant. I dress mechanically, hands fumbling less from fatigue now than from nerves. The fabric clings to me like the air did last night—tight, assessing.
In the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back.
I open the door.
Mara nods approvingly and leads me toward a different wing. The air is warmer here; soft music drifts faintly from somewhere below. It's too pleasant to be real.
"What is this place?" I ask.
"The South Pavilion," she says. "Neutral ground."
I almost snort. Nothing in this estate is neutral.
She pauses at a set of polished double doors.
"When you walk inside," she says, lowering her voice, "do not reveal fear. People in that room make careers out of weaponizing it."
My pulse jumps.
"Thanks," I whisper. "That makes me feel much better."
A small smile touches her mouth. "Then you're still human."
The doors open.
Light pours over us like warm syrup—golden, bright, too soft to trust. The space is designed like a lounge in a palace: arched windows, high ceilings, velvety sofas arranged in careful clusters.
And people.
Elegant men and women in dark suits. Some older, some younger. Each one wearing sector insignia pinned to their lapels.None are heirs, but their eyes are sharp enough to carve stone.
Every head turns toward me.
Heat surges in my chest.
Mara touches my elbow lightly. "Walk."
So I do.
The room parts around me—not hostile, not welcoming. Curious. Predatory. Cataloguing. Like they're trying to decide whether I'm currency, weapon, or liability.
A man in a silver pin approaches first—Corporate Sector, if I remember correctly.
"Miss Quinn," he says, taking my hand without waiting for permission. "We've been eager to meet you. Your father's signature kept three companies afloat during the recession twenty years ago."
The words feel like a blade wrapped in velvet.
I pull my hand back. "Is that why I'm here? So you can thank me for something he did?"
"Not thank." His smile widens. "Assess."
Mara shifts closer, a quiet warning.
We move again.
A woman from the Political Sector smiles at me with sharp lips. "Your photograph doesn't do you justice. The heirs will have a difficult time behaving."
My stomach twists. "I wasn't aware behaving was part of the process."
"It isn't." She winks. "That's the concern."
A laugh ripples from those listening.
I want the floor to open and swallow me whole.
Instead, Mara guides me toward a quieter corner.
"Just breathe," she murmurs. "They're testing your reactions."
Of course they are. Everything here is a test.
I open my mouth to respond—
The room changes.
Subtle, but immediate. A shift in gravity. A hush beneath the noise.
No footsteps announce him, but I feel him before I see him.
The fifth heir.
He steps into the room like he belongs nowhere but everywhere—collar still slightly open, hair tousled as if fingers had carded through it. His eyes sweep the space lazily, then sharpen the moment they find me.
My pulse lurches.
Mara stiffens beside me. "They weren't supposed to be here," she whispers.
He walks toward us, unhurried. Every conversation in the room seems to warp, bending away from him. Delegates step aside without thinking.
He stops a few feet from me.
His eyes hold mine—dark, steady, too direct.
"You're early," he says softly.
"I didn't know I had a schedule."
"You do. It just wasn't given to you."
Mara moves between us instinctively. "Sir, this is not within protocol—"
He doesn't look at her. He keeps his gaze on me.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he says. "Not with them."
My voice comes out quieter than I intend. "I'm not alone."
His gaze flicks toward Mara, then back to me.
"You know what I meant."
Heat climbs up my throat.
Mara clears her throat sharply. "You have to leave, sir. The Council was very explicit—no interaction during preliminary assessments."
"You think they can control what I do?" he asks, calm, almost bored.
"No," Mara whispers. "But they'll punish her for it."
Something flickers in his eyes—quick, dangerous, gone too fast to interpret.
He steps back a fraction.
Enough to obey protocol.Not enough to break the pull between us.
"Don't stay here long," he murmurs to me alone. "You're being evaluated."
"I know."
"No," he says. "You don't."
A chill races down my spine.
And then—
He turns and walks out.
The entire room exhales.
Mara grabs my wrist gently. "We need to move. Now."
"Why?"
"Because," she says, voice strained, "every sector delegate saw how he looked at you."
Heat crashes through me in a single, sickening wave.
How he looked at me.Like he was memorizing something he shouldn't.Like I was already becoming a problem.Like I was already becoming a claim.
Mara ushers me toward a side hallway, away from the murmuring crowd.
"Am I in trouble?" I whisper.
She hesitates.
Not long.Not enough to soften the truth.
"Not yet," she says. "But whatever happened just now? Everyone in that room felt it."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means," she breathes, "the Selection hasn't even begun…"
Her eyes flick behind us.
"…and one of them has already broken formation."