Chapter 2

2

ATLAS

I never wanted to be here.

Charleston’s elite gathered in clusters, their laughter soft and practiced, their conversations filled with the kind of effortless arrogance that only came with old money and deeper secrets. Crystal clinked against fine china, champagne bubbled over the rims of delicate flutes, and somewhere between the flickering candlelight and the warm Southern night, I could smell deception.

This was a battlefield, just dressed differently.

I adjusted my tuxedo jacket, my fingers flexing against the crisp fabric. I hated the goddamn thing—too tight across my shoulders, too stiff at the collar. It felt like a cage, a silk-lined noose wrapped neatly around my neck. I wasn’t built for this world, not really. I should’ve been back at Dominion Hall, sitting in my candlelit room, a cigar between my fingers, bourbon warming my throat. Music drifting through the air, untouched by the vanity of a crowd.

But I was here for a reason.

Department 77.

A ghost organization. A whispered name carried on the wind like a death knell. They had infiltrated Charleston’s upper crust, hiding in plain sight. And they wanted Dominion Hall.

I would never let that happen.

So I stood among them, silent as always, observing. Watching. Listening. My father’s voice echoed in my memory, a reminder I had long since buried. You’ll never lead, Atlas, not if you refuse to speak.

He was wrong.

I led by knowing what others did not. By watching, by reading, by understanding the spaces between words. I had learned to command without ever needing to raise my voice. And right now, every cell in my body was attuned to one mission—finding the men who wanted to take what was ours.

I should have been paying attention.

But then she started playing.

And I forgot how to breathe.

I didn’t know her name yet, but I knew her music. It wasn’t just “Clair de Lune.” It was something else, something older than the notes, something ethereal.

I had heard this piece a hundred times before, played by master pianists and orchestras across the world. But not like this. Never like this.

She played like she was summoning something. Like the music wasn’t just part of her, but something she reached for, pulled from the ether and made flesh beneath her fingers. It wasn’t flawless—it was alive. Her tempo slower, her phrasing deliberate. She let the notes breathe. Let them sink into the air, wrap around the space between the guests, curling into the night like smoke from a dying ember.

It was intoxicating.

I had spent years learning to appreciate things most men like me didn’t. My brothers called me The Commander as a joke once, teasing me about my silence. Said I’d never be like our father if I didn’t learn to speak.

So I read. I learned. Music, language, culture.

Not because I wanted to prove them wrong.

Because I wanted to understand the world better than anyone else.

And right now, I wanted to understand her.

She sat on the velvet bench, poised and perfect, her fingers moving with effortless grace. But then she glanced up.

Her eyes caught mine.

She faltered—just barely, just a whisper of hesitation. But I saw it.

I should have looked away. I should have melted back into the shadows, let the night carry me forward, let my mission keep me from distractions. But something in me needed to watch her.

Not because she was beautiful.

Because there was a secret behind her eyes.

Russian, I could tell immediately. High cheekbones, delicate but sharp, like a blade that had been honed rather than sculpted. A figure meant for ballet, long limbs, a natural elegance that couldn’t be taught. But her grace only lived in her hands.

The rest of her? Clumsy.

It was the way her foot slipped slightly against the floor when she repositioned. The way her dress shifted just a little too fast, like she hadn’t fully accounted for the movement. The way, even now, her fingers were sure, but the rest of her body was adjusting, catching up.

She wasn’t effortless.

She was human.

And that intrigued me.

I had met too many people who wore their talent like armor. Who performed rather than existed. But this woman was real. And that made her dangerous.

Because real things had a way of getting under your skin.

The song was coming to an end. I should have left, should have disappeared into the night and gone back to what actually mattered.

But then she stood.

Too fast.

Her heel caught on the edge of the bench, her body tilting. I saw it before it happened, the way her balance wavered, the moment gravity pulled her down.

And without thinking, I moved.

My hands caught her waist before she could fall, fingers curling around the silk of her dress, the heat of her body bleeding through the fabric. She was weightless in my grip, her breath sharp as I steadied her.

I didn’t plan on speaking.

But her wide eyes flicked up to mine, and the words came anyway.

“Careful,” I murmured.

Her lips parted slightly, breath uneven, fingers curling instinctively around my forearm. Her grip was light, delicate. I didn’t need to brace for impact, didn’t need to adjust my stance. She was nothing against my frame. Small.

But not fragile.

I saw it now, clearer than before. The set of her jaw, the flicker of embarrassment in her expression, the way she composed herself quickly, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress as if the moment had never happened.

Her pride was intact. Barely.

“I, um—” she cleared her throat, “thank you.”

Her voice was soft but steady. She was still composing herself, still finding her footing. But I wasn’t paying attention to that.

I was watching her hands.

They were made for music. Lithe, dexterous. But now, up close, I saw the small callouses along her fingertips, the faint tension in her knuckles. She practiced constantly. Played until her hands ached.

I knew the kind of discipline that took.

It didn’t matter. I couldn’t afford to be curious.

But then she tilted her chin, her gaze searching mine.

“Are you always this … unsteady on your feet after a performance?” I asked.

I almost smiled. Almost.

“Only when large, terrifying men appear out of nowhere and throw me off my game.”

A flicker of something—something sharp and teasing—passed through her expression. She’s flirting.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I said, “You play it slower than most.”

The teasing faltered slightly. Her head tilted, curiosity settling in its place. “What?”

“‘Clair de Lune,’” I said. “Most rush the phrasing. You let it breathe.”

Surprise flashed in her eyes.

“You know Debussy?” she asked, as if it was the last thing she expected to hear from me.

“I know classical music.”

A simple answer. The truth.

She studied me, like she was trying to reconcile the man in front of her with the knowledge he had just revealed. I let her. I let her wonder.

Because she wasn’t the only one searching for something tonight.

I had my own ghosts to hunt.

Department 77 was still out there. The men who wanted to burn Dominion Hall to the ground. The men who had left pieces of my father’s past scattered in the dark.

I had work to do.

This woman wasn’t part of the plan.

But as she smiled at me—slow, intrigued, dangerous—I had the strangest feeling.

This wouldn’t be the last time I saw her.

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