Page 24 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

I stare at my reflection in the bedroom mirror, my gaze sharp enough to split glass.

I’ve chosen a dark emerald gown, silk with a subtle sheen, and my auburn hair is pinned into a controlled knot that softens at the nape of my neck. I’ve applied lipstick and mascara with deliberation, each stroke a declaration; I am still here.

“Come on,” Beth murmurs, voice low but firm. The junior consultant wears a muted slate-blue dress, supportive and discreet. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” My voice is crisp, controlled. “If I go dark, I disappear. That gives them the narrative they want. That I fled. I can’t do that.”

Beth looks away, lips thinning.

“But this is the gala at Echelon. Cameras everywhere. That room won’t feel safer than home.”

I shake my head. “It’ll feel powerful.”

It is a gamble. The scandal has eaten my reputation; I need oxygen, validation, allies. I need to show I’m not crumbling. This gala is my stage.

I slide into heels, lift my chin, tighten my grip on the clutch.

“I’m doing this on my own.”

Beth’s mouth trembles, but she nods. “Then get out there and tell them you’re still in the fight.”

***

The Echelon Hotel Ballroom unfolds like a polished dream: ceilings arched high, chandeliers glinting overhead, marble columns framing the polished dance of politics and influence.

The red carpet leads past cameras flashing like distant thunder, each flash a countdown to one more moment under the microscope.

“Rick Donovan from Capitol Strategies publicly funds a full-page apology in the Post,” a voice whispers behind me as I enter.

I don’t flinch. I tilt my head and offer a measured smile.

“Let him write it,” I murmur to Beth, voice barely audible. “I’ll show up, face the press, remind them who’s talking.”

We approach the check-in line. A cluster of reporters fires questions.

“Ms. Calloway, how do you respond to new allegations?”

“Is your firm reviewing new evidence?”

“Does this scandal compromise policymaking?”

I respond in soundbites that are fluid, confident, and rehearsed. I stick to the lines.

“Undergoing review.”

“No comment on internal process.”

“I respect transparency.”

Enough to fill the space, but vague enough to withhold substance.

Once past the barrier, I pluck Beth’s arm lightly. “Stay close.”

Inside, the ballroom glitters with power. Center tables host senators and major lobbyist families.

Media mingle with insiders, some professional, most predatory. Beyond the fringe of noise, I feel the hum of eyes, of presences I can’t name.

I catch sight of familiar faces, the rival firm executive who’d leaked campaign committee memos. He stands two tables over, lips curved smirk-thin, whispering into a reporter’s ear. I freeze, catch the name tag, Lucas Trent, EVP at Holloway my gown hugs my spine like armor. But beneath it all, I know I am walking a tightrope across glass.

Then comes the collision.

A quick turn. A misplaced step. My heel snags on the hem of my satin train. A breath catches in my throat. Then a firm hand around my wrist steadies me.

I look up.

Time folds in on itself.

The man before me is sharply dressed, his black tie cut to precision, dark hair smoothed back, expression unreadable but…heavy. Not with recognition, but with knowing. He doesn’t smile or speak right away.

Neither do I.

His fingers linger a beat too long before releasing my wrist. And in that silence between touch and words, something passes through me, like static, like a warning, like an echo I can’t trace.

“I’m sorry,” I say, breathless, brushing imaginary dust from my gown as if to recover grace.

His voice is quiet, deliberate. “You should watch your step in a room like this.”

There’s no accent, but there’s something foreign in the way he measures his syllables. Like he’s weighing my reactions. Or savoring them.

I straighten. “And you are?”

There’s a slight intentional pause.

“Lucian Dane.”

I don’t recognize him exactly. But his presence unnerves me in a way no photograph or dossier ever had.

I study him from behind the rim of my glass. His eyes aren’t predatory. They’re patient. Curious. Calm. Like he’s reading my body language.

“You here for the cause,” I ask lightly, “or the spectacle?”

“Depends on what burns,” he replies. “And who’s holding the match.”

The corner of my mouth tugs, despite myself. “So…both.”

He inclines his head, just slightly. “That’s the most honest answer I’ve heard all night.”

I can’t help myself; I linger. Something in the cadence of his speech, the weight behind the control, makes me feel seen and hidden all at once. Like a spotlight disguised as a shadow.

We stand close, yet nothing brushes. No flirtation in posture. No obvious cues. Just silence loud enough to shake my spine.

“You don’t seem fazed by the scandal,” I say.

“I don’t believe in scandal,” Lucian answers. “Only tactics.”

I meet his gaze. “And what do you think mine are?”

His eyes glint. “Still forming. But I think you’re more dangerous than they realize.”

It’s flattery, but stripped of charm. As if he isn’t here to seduce me—but to mark something. A boundary. Or a beginning.

A beat passes.

“Vera,” comes Jay’s voice, cutting through the thread like scissors. He appears at my side, his hand brushing my elbow. “We need to talk. Now.”

I blink, startled back into the room.

Lucian’s presence recedes like smoke folding back into shadow.

“I’m in the middle of something,” I say, glancing sideways.

Jay leans in, voice low. “Someone at Finch just accessed restricted files. Then deleted them.”

The blood drains from my face. “What?”

“I’ll explain. Not here.”

I turn back, pulse pounding, but Lucian is gone. No trace, polite excuse, or parting glance.

Just empty space and the scent of something clean and cold where he’d stood.

***

The ballroom has become a living contradiction, opulence housing vultures. Beneath the chandelier sparkle, beneath the orchestral hum and champagne clinks, I feel it all. The fractures in my armor, the thrum of uncertainty curled behind every glance.

Yet, I stay.

My heels cut confidence across polished marble. My posture holds like steel. People move around me, some nodding, others averting their eyes, but I move through it like smoke.

Untouchable. And that, in itself, is a lie I tell better than anyone.

I make conversation. Strategic hellos. I accept a flute of sparkling water from a waiter with steady fingers. Smile. Laugh, even. It doesn’t reach my eyes. Nothing has since the smear campaign detonated three days ago.

Somewhere in the gilded maze of donors, politicians, and PR ghosts, my enemy watches. I don’t know who, but someone did this. Someone close enough to rewrite my life in headlines and forged inbox threads.

Let them see me. Let them wonder how I haven’t crumbled yet.

Across the room, I catch the eye of a woman from the press—one who had emailed me earlier with a “comment request.” I don’t blink. The woman turns away.

From a distance, mirrors layer reflections on top of reflections—guests ghosting over themselves like spirits trapped in glass. I see myself in fragments: chin up, gown fitted, expression unreadable.

It’s in one of those fractured panes that I see him again.

Lucian.

He lingers near a column dressed in ivy and lights, blending into the expensive anonymity of black-tie silhouettes. But he isn’t like the others. He stands as though the entire room bows around him. Like architecture bends for his presence.

Still, no one notices. No one but me.

I shouldn’t have looked back.

I tell myself it’s coincidence. That I only remembered the cut of his jaw because I’d just seen him. That the eyes weren’t actually familiar and that my body was only misfiring, caught in the residue of trauma.

But my skin says otherwise. My spine tingles. My pulse slips into a quiet staccato.

I remember the feel of his voice more than the words. Remembered the moment he said my name without saying it.

I turn toward the bar, pretending to sip, and try to shake it.

“Pull it together,” I whisper to myself. “This isn’t about ghosts. This is about survival.”

Across the ballroom, a large-screen projection flickers live clips from current campaigns, interspersed with gala highlights. For a half-second, I catch a frozen frame of my own entrance, my face lit by camera flashes, walking down the carpet with Beth.

The wolves are watching. And I’ve bled just enough to feed them.

From behind me, someone moves too close.

I pivot, breath shallow, but it’s only a young staffer dropping off a card tray.

My nerves scrape against the lining of my dress. I need to get out soon. My body can’t keep up with the performance much longer.

I spot Jay emerging from a side hallway, scanning the crowd with urgency. I start toward him, but then the music changes.

Low strings. Slower tempo.

And someone steps into my path.

Not from the crowd. Not from the chaos. From the shadows.

Lucian.

This time, closer.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t smile. He merely holds out his hand, the ghost of amusement flickering behind his eyes. Something older than this room. Something ancient in its restraint.

I hesitate. My fingers twitch.

He says nothing.

So neither do I.

But I don’t take his hand.

Instead, I step past him.

It isn’t rebellion. It is surrender in reverse. It is the choice to walk away from the thing I don’t yet name but already fear.

Jay finds me two steps later.

When I glance back….

He is gone.

Inside the powder room of the Echelon Hotel, I lean over the sink, my palms braced on porcelain.

I stare at my reflection, not for beauty. Not for damage. But to find the version of myself that used to feel safe in glass.

I’m not there.

Behind me, the bathroom door opens. I startle.

But it is only another guest. Perfume clouds the air. High heels click. A tap runs.

I wipe my hands and turn toward the exit, the sound of strings rising in the ballroom again.

I adjust the neckline of my gown. Lift my chin.

Step back into the masquerade.

But the part of me that had locked eyes with a stranger is still burning. Not because of who he was…

…but because I fear I already know.