**Chapter 9** Bash “How dare you ruin my dress!” Mrs. Winston’s shrill voice pierces through the air like a knife, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. Her complexion has turned as crimson as the wine that now stains her delicate pale blue gown, a shocking smear that transforms it into an unsightly shade reminiscent of a bruise. The server’s head hangs low, shame washing over him as he absorbs her tirade. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay for it,” he stutters, his voice barely a whisper. Mrs. Winston scoffs, her disdain palpable. “Do you have any idea how much that costs? More than anything you will ever own in your pathetic, wretched life.” As her words strike like a whip, I glance toward the hallway, where Stasia’s flame-red hair flickers out of view just as Mrs. Winston shrieks, unhinged and melodramatic as if she’s suffered a grievous injury rather than a mere mishap. People like her—privileged, arrogant—make my blood boil. They allow their wealth and status within the Order of Saints to inflate their egos, believing they stand above the rest of us. With one hand gripping the server’s collar, she’s poised to unleash more fury when I step in, with my fingers clamping down on her other arm just before she can react. “Do not touch him,” I bark, my voice low but laced with a menacing undertone. Her eyes widen, momentarily stunned by my intervention. “Of course. I would never,” she mutters, her bravado faltering. I release her arm with disdain, unfolding my handkerchief with calculated slowness. I wipe my fingers as if I’ve touched something foul, then let the luxurious cloth flutter to the ground. By the time I’ve finished, her ire has swivelled toward me, her mouth poised to unleash whatever venom she’s concocted. If I weren’t already captivated by the memory of Stasia slipping away, I might find amusement in the anticipated barrage of insults. But before she can let loose, her daughter intervenes, slinking an arm around her mother’s waist, urgency in her tone. “I’m so sorry. My mother hasn’t been feeling well.” The air thickens with unspoken tension, a palpable chill descending as I gaze at both women, my head slightly inclined in a silent challenge. “Feel better,” I respond nonchalantly. “Thank you. I’ll take her home right away,” the daughter replies, her voice shaky but resolute. Not so fast—I’m not letting them off that easily. “Don’t you owe him an apology?” I gesture toward the waiter, who is now staring at the floor as if it were a portal to another world. The audacity of these women is astounding. “Apologize?” Mrs. Winston and her daughter gasp dramatically, as if I’ve asked them to perform an impossible feat. Yet, a wicked grin plays on my lips—part of me relishes this power trip. “Yes. Ask for his forgiveness,” I assert, my voice unyielding. “But he ruined the dress!” the daughter retorts, before catching her breath, eyes widening in realization of her misstep. Ah, there it is—the shared arrogance between mother and daughter. “Well, that’s true…” I mused, letting a faux moment of contemplation hang in the air. The daughter’s expression ignites with victory, but I lean in, my voice silky but firm. “But I distinctly heard him apologize multiple times. Therefore, it’s your turn now, Mrs. Winston.” A muscle ticks in her cheek, revealing her inner turmoil. Regret? Hardly. She’s probably never uttered an apology to anyone in her adult life, particularly not someone she sees as less than herself. I can only imagine where this inflated self-importance originates; it’s fleeting, mere smoke that can be extinguished. Her complexion pales as awareness dawns. “I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” “Your sorry is all well and good, but wouldn’t it be more meaningful if backed by generosity?” I press, watching the server tense as he cautiously gives attention to our exchange. He knows it’s not wise to engage directly but stays frozen in a state of uncertainty. “After all, one of your esteemed dresses likely costs more than—what did you just say? Oh yes… his entire pathetic life?” Mrs. Winston’s jaw sets, tightening stubbornly. “I will no—" she starts, an indignant reply bubbling up, but her daughter is quicker, digging through her clutch. She retrieves a handful of bills, presenting them to the server. “Here, is this enough?” He looks up, brow furrowed in confusion, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in power dynamics. Tentatively, he accepts the cash, eyes downcast. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to ruin your dress.” The daughter pulls her mother away like a marionette, guiding her further into the ballroom, eager to evade any further embarrassment. Pity. I was enjoying myself. “Um… sir,” the server stammers, lifting his head, still looking hesitant. “Thank you… I… that’s it. Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. And do yourself a favor—don’t return to this place. It’s not meant for you,” I reply, my tone lightening slightly. He nods, pulling out his wallet, the leather straining under its own weight. I watch, bemused, as he fumbles, cracking it open to reveal a treasure trove of cash, bills neatly stacked, thousands worth. “With cash like that, why are you even here?” I chuckle, curiosity piqued. His throat bobs nervously, fingers trembling as he snaps the wallet shut. “They’re just tips from tonight. Many are kind people here.” A chuckle escapes me, though his words raise a red flag. “There’s not a soul in this room who’d part with a dime unless their life depended on it. So let’s cut the nonsense—start from the beginning and clue me in on what’s really going on.” He turns a ghostly white, glancing behind him toward the hallway, as if weighing his options amidst the gathering shadows. “I…I don’t know everyone’s name yet. It’s my first day. Please don’t tell my boss.” “Anastasia Volkov. Stunning, blue eyes, wild red hair…” His eyes widen, recognition flooding his features. Gotcha. A vibrant warmth spreads through me; the intrigue only deepens. What is she plotting now? “You’re working with Miss Volkov?” I press, catching a glimpse of his hesitation. “No, Sir.” I raise an eyebrow, feigning irritation but secretly impressed with his loyalty. “I’d usually be irritated by your dishonesty, but I admire your commitment to Stasia. It won’t end well for you, though.” “Wait... you’re the guy who was speaking with her! Are you two close?” he blurts out, a mixture of curiosity and urgency in his voice. My smile threatens to break free, but I keep it hidden. “You could say that.” “It’s fine, then. She asked me to provide a short distraction.” “For what?” “Didn’t say. Just told me to create a diversion. I thought she was sneaking out.” A rush of unspoken thoughts races through my mind. The nagging anxiety builds—what if she slips away to rendezvous with someone else? “Where did she go?” His voice drops slightly, caution creeping in. “She just… went through that hall. That’s all I know, I swear.” Before he can say more, I round him, storming toward the passageway where I saw Stasia vanish. I’ve given her far too much time, distracted by the unfolding chaos. Now, an insatiable curiosity compels me forward; whatever she’s plotting, it’s beyond mere boredom. One doesn’t bribe a waiter without a significant purpose. As tempting as it might be to inform my brothers, I keep this mischief to myself. I’ll follow her trail and discover her secrets alone. The corridor stretches out, eerily silent, devoid of any exits save for storage rooms lined with unused chairs and tables. My footfalls remain soft, muffled by the carpet as I probe deeper into the right wing. Each door I open reveals nothing but mundane decorations and forgotten furnishings. My phone buzzes, snapping my focus—Damon: Where are you? Damn it. I’d nearly forgotten about the Order meeting tonight. An electric pulse surges beneath my skin as my gaze flits toward the Vault entrance. Could she really be that reckless? I allow myself a small grin, half-hoping she is. My pace quickens, heart racing, as the distance closes between me and the entrance. What in hell’s name is she after? Just as I near the vault, a sudden metallic click draws my attention. The light gray storage door swings open, revealing a figure draped in a black hood adorned with a silver wolf mask—the unmistakable attire of the Order of Saints. “Who are you?” I demand, narrowing my eyes. They clear their throat and tilt their head in respectful acknowledgment. “Volkov.” My instincts sharpen. Stasia’s brother? He’s been here all along? Relief and frustration intertwine as the tension coiling in my spine releases slightly. “Are you sick?” I ask, taking a step closer. “Fine,” he replies, though the way his posture stiffens tells me otherwise. “Where’s your sister?” I ask, scanning the hallway for any sign of her. “Good evening, Lord.” Another hooded figure approaches, bowing low, followed by others, each one adding weight to the tension in the air. My confrontations are thwarted; I can’t question Volkov in the presence of his comrades without drawing suspicion. Frustration courses through me as I shove my thoughts of Stasia down for the moment and turn, stepping away toward the Lord’s entrance just a few steps ahead, grateful to escape the gathering. Order meetings have grown stale, each one more lifeless than the last, but tonight? Tonight feels different. “Where the hell have you been?” Matthias snaps, his displeasure evident as I walk through the door. “Got distracted,” I mutter, still reeling from everything. Damon slaps me playfully on the back of the head. “Well, snap out of it. I want this over with. Misty says she has a surprise for me.” "What kind of surprise?" I feign interest, smirking as I sidestep his next teasing jab. “Remember, I may be your little brother, but don’t underestimate me. I swear, I’ll kill you for even thinking about my wife like that.” My smile fades as the weight of his words sinks in; the rivalry is no joke. I’d defend my sisters fiercely, too. “It’s you who needs to hurry, Damon. You’re the one running this damn meeting,” Matthias scolds, but my thoughts drift elsewhere. Stasia’s distraction sparks a million questions. Why meet her brother before the Vault? What couldn’t she say in the shadow of the gala? A flicker of insight ignites; what if she needed that distraction to reach him? But for what reason? The dawning realization claws at my mind—I’m missing something vital. Cell phones won’t work within the Vault’s confines, but they function perfectly fine in the hall. No... I’m asking the wrong question. I need to uncover the mystery behind her elaborate scheme. The real question is: where did she go?