The gates of the Lachn estate swung open with a low, metallic groan that echoed across the grounds like a warning. His bck SUV led the convoy, sleek and unyielding, followed close by the pearl-toned sedan carrying Camille and Savina Morvant. A third SUV sealed the formation from behind, the vehicles moving as one, jaws closing on fresh territory.

  Gravel whispered under the tires, a soft crunch that filled the wide courtyard as the line came to a precise halt. Dust settled in zy spirals around the wheels. The women of the estate were already assembled there, waiting in perfect formation beneath the afternoon sun.

  Celeste and The Mistress - wearing her own colr - stood at the center, shoulders squared, heels driven into the stone like anchors ciming the earth. Sunlight caught the diamond on Celeste’s finger. To her right waited Marisol, immacute in a tailored suit that hugged every curve with quiet authority, the Sisterhood colr at her throat gleaming with deliberate pride. To the left stood Noa, quiet and contained, her own colr visible just above the crisp line of her white blouse, eyes steady and unreadable.

  The doors of the pearl sedan opened with a soft click.

  Camille stepped out first, every inch tailored perfection. Her silk blouse caught the light for a brief, teasing fsh against her skin. The smile on her lips was honed to surgical precision, cool and cutting.

  A voice sliced across the courtyard, dry and ced with unamused elegance.

  The Mistress: “As I live and breathe… Camille Morvant.”

  Camille’s smile widened, not warmer, only sharper, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected challenge right back. “You sound almost disappointed, darling.”

  Then Savina emerged.

  Her boots struck the gravel hard, each step deliberate and heavy. No polish. No pretense. Her scowl carried real weight, coiled violence barely leashed beneath the surface. Her gaze swept the waiting line: the colrs, the diamond, the fwless symmetry of power dispyed openly in broad daylight.

  Her mouth twisted into something feral.

  Savina: “What the hell is this? A coven?” She let the word hang, then added with a low snort, “Or a brothel? Or both, maybe? Hard to tell with the matching jewelry.”

  A beat of silence stretched taut between them.

  The Mistress’s lips curved into a razor-thin smile, the kind that promised teeth beneath the elegance. Marisol’s eyes flickered with quiet, knowing amusement, one brow lifting just a fraction. Celeste didn’t blink, her expression carved from ice and authority.

  Noa felt it hit her then—not offense, not insult, but something deeper. Recognition. The stance. The tension. The way Savina held herself like a strike waiting for the smallest permission to nd. It rang through Noa’s chest like a struck bell, low and resonant. She stayed perfectly still, disciplined to the core, but her pulse quickened anyway, a secret rhythm beneath her calm exterior.

  Camille smoothed the sleeve of her jacket with deliberate care, as if the moment had barely grazed her, and stepped forward one measured pace. “We came because some things are better said face to face. Not over wires.” Her voice stayed smooth, edged with command. “Face to face.”

  Celeste tilted her head, just enough to let the diamond scatter light again, bright and merciless across the gravel. Her reply came calm, immovable, cold enough to crystallize the air between them.

  “Then speak, queen of Strayforth. We’re listening.”

  The Mistress’s smile sharpened beside her, a silent promise of elegance wrapped around steel. Marisol folded her arms, gaze gleaming with restrained curiosity. Noa remained taut, eyes locked on Savina, her silence heavier than any insult could ever be.

  The courtyard held its breath, thick with anticipation and the electric charge of two worlds colliding.

  The battle lines were drawn, sharp and unmistakable in the golden light.