1. Lark
ONE
LARK
Black fig and dark rose.
The Villainette signature candle had been burning since seven in the morning, and the SoHo flagship smelled exactly the way Lark Coleman wanted it to smell: like a villain’s boudoir after a successful heist. Rich.
Warm. A little dangerous. The kind of scent that made people lean in and ask what it was, and then buy three.
“The Poison Ivy display needs to rotate fifteen degrees clockwise.” Breezy stood in the center of the store with her tablet in one hand and her backup phone in the other, dark hair pulled into a sleek, low bun that meant she was operating at maximum efficiency.
Which was her only setting. “And the selfie wall lighting is two shades too warm.”
“It’s supposed to be warm. It’s flattering.
” Lark adjusted the mannequin in the window display—a rotating showcase of villain outfits that she’d spent three weeks curating.
Today’s feature: a hand-stitched Catwoman-inspired bodysuit in matte black leather alongside a custom Harley Quinn bomber jacket.
“People don’t take selfies in clinical lighting.
They take selfies in lighting that makes them look like they could commit a glamorous crime. ”
“She’s right.” Sybil perched on the beauty bar counter, legs crossed, her long black hair falling over a cream silk blouse that probably cost more than the store’s monthly electric bill. She held up her phone. “I took a test selfie. The warm light makes my cheekbones look incredible.”
“Your cheekbones always look incredible,” Lark said. “That’s genetics, not wattage.”
“I accept the compliment and the lighting.” Sybil tucked her phone away. “Where do you want the Nightbloom merch?”
Lark stepped back and surveyed the space. Six weeks of construction, two all-nighters, one screaming match with a contractor who didn’t understand that the neon had to be purple and not lavender—and here it was. Villainette SoHo. Her biggest flagship. Her best work.
The store spread across sixteen hundred square feet of prime SoHo real estate, and every inch of it sang.
Purple neon traced the window frames and the edge of the ceiling, casting a violet glow across black fixtures and gold accents.
The comics wall filled the entire left side—villain and anti-hero titles displayed face-out, organized by universe, each section anchored by a staff-pick card in Lark’s handwriting.
The beauty bar occupied the back right corner: villain-themed lipstick collections in sleek black tubes, each shade named with intent.
Morally Gray. Main Character Energy. Revenge Red.
A cosplay corner with materials, wigs, and accessories sat opposite the beauty bar.
And dominating the back wall, the selfie station—a rotating art installation of villain portraits, backlit, Instagrammable, designed to make every customer the star of their own origin story.
The sound system pulsed through hidden speakers. Trip-hop bass, a low R&B vocal, the kind of playlist that made people slow down and browse.
“Nightbloom goes on the indie wall, second shelf from the top.” Lark pointed. “Lumi’s art deserves eye level, but the first editions need the prime real estate today. We can rotate next week.”
Breezy typed without looking up. “Noted. The Celestial Ronin Forgotten Gate merchandise from Keiser Entertainment arrived this morning. Three boxes. I’ve inventoried and priced. Where do you want it?”
“End cap by the door. It’s a conversation starter—people walk in, see the Ronin display, and get pulled deeper into the store.” Lark snapped the mannequin’s cape straight. “Retail choreography, Breeze. Every display is an invitation to stay longer.”
“I’m aware. I designed your floor plan.”
“You designed my floor plan brilliantly.”
“I know.” Breezy’s mouth twitched. For Breezy, this was a standing ovation. “Sound system test in five. Sybil, stop taking selfies.”
“I’m testing the lighting for quality assurance purposes.” Sybil held up her phone. Seventeen selfies filled the screen. “These are research.”
Lark laughed and crouched behind the beauty bar to unpack the last box of lipsticks.
The Morally Gray shade needed restocking already—the pre-order numbers had been staggering.
She lined them up with the practiced speed—she’d done this in four other locations and never once gotten tired of it.
Each tube clicked into the display with a satisfying snap.
This is going to work. She straightened a row of Main Character Energy tubes and let herself have the moment.
The lease signing. The construction nightmares.
The 3:00 AM panic about whether SoHo was too ambitious, too expensive, too close to the world of high-art galleries and luxury retail that had never made room for a brand like hers.
Too close to a certain neighbor she hadn’t met yet.
Lark rose from behind the counter and drifted toward the front of the store.
The shared wall between Villainette and the store next door was plastered-over old brick—solid, substantial, and apparently not substantial enough to contain a bass line.
But the wall didn’t extend all the way to the storefront.
The last foot before the facade was glass on both sides, the plate windows of each store nearly meeting before the dividing wall began.
A narrow sliver of visibility. Enough to see in.
Somewhere in the back, behind the stockroom shelving, a service door connected the two spaces—a relic of the building’s shared infrastructure that the contractor had pointed out during construction. She hadn’t locked it. Hadn’t needed to.
She leaned against the wall’s edge and looked through that gap.
The neighboring store’s facade was understated—dark wood, brass hardware, a single elegant sign in serif font.
Sterling & Mane. The kind of signage that communicated, without a shred of irony, that if you had to ask what they sold, you couldn’t afford it.
Through the glass, she could see the interior. Gallery lighting over climate-controlled display cases. Hardwood floors polished to a museum sheen. And a man.
Tall. Very tall. Broad shoulders under a dark suit jacket that tapered to a narrow waist with the fit of bespoke tailoring.
He stood in profile, arranging editions inside a glass case with gloved hands—white cotton gloves, the kind archivists used to handle priceless documents.
His hair caught the gallery light: tawny gold, thick, falling across his forehead in a way that looked effortless and was almost certainly not.
Strong jaw. High cheekbones cut at angles that belonged on currency.
He moved with unhurried, deliberate grace, each gesture measured, controlled, as though the air itself reorganized around him to make room.
He placed an edition into the case. Adjusted its angle by approximately two millimeters. Stepped back. Studied it. Adjusted it again.