Chapter 22
The lights in Studio Seven emit a low, constant thrum.
Everything here gleams with curated sterility.
Walls awash in powdered cream, floors buffed to an artificial gloss made for camera lenses and illusions.
The air is dense with the scent of varnish, hairspray, and quiet desperation.
A dozen mirrored vanities stand in perfect formation, sanctified shrines to reinvention.
I sit before one, still cloaked in a silk robe that feels too untouched for how raw I am beneath it.
Three girls orbit around me. Spellcasters in training, barely old enough to be out of the Academy, their movements deliberate and worshipful.
The first winds pearl pins into my hair, coaxing it into glossy submission.
The second sweeps highlighter across my cheekbones with a brush that tickles more than it enhances.
The third studies her tray of lip pigments, forehead creased in concentration, as if the fate of the nation hinges on the right shade of rose.
They’re from the Aureum Quarter, I can hear it in the soft lilt of their vowels and slightly too careful politeness.
Each wears a basic ruby bracelet on their wrist. I remember that district before Father’s promotion moved us up the chain.
Chaotic and overbright, the air swollen with raw magic and restless invention.
Streets teeming with playwrights, potion vendors, and failed revolutionaries who thought inspiration could replace infrastructure.
I used to pass this very studio on my way home, dodging street performers hurling sparkles from cracked rubies and praying my shielding charm would hold.
The atmosphere always buzzed, not with power, but with carelessness.
When Father moved us to Crown Heights, it felt like finally being able to breathe.
Clean air, controlled magic, purpose instead of passion.
Now I’m the one in the chair, and they can barely contain their enthusiasm, words tumbling over each other like eager ember puppies.
The girl working on my hair leans in, eyes bright with awe. “We’ve followed all your achievements at the Academy, Miss Ellis. Your thesis display is still there, you know—right between your Innovation Medal, and the Golden Quill for Academic Excellence.”
“Three consecutive wins for the Magical Theory Prize,” another adds, halting mid-stroke with the highlighter. “And your complexion is flawless.”
“Your hair is just divine,” the third adds, running her fingers reverently through my golden waves. “I’ve never seen such a perfect shade. The way it catches the light, is it a special treatment?”
I smile, angling my chin just enough to catch the overhead lights. “Crown Heights values refinement. Everything is cultivated, from hair care to education to breath itself.”
“It shows,” the youngest sighs, still clutching her lip palette preciously. “Everything about you is so perfect. You carry yourself so differently, like someone who belongs. You’re nothing like the rest of us from Aureum.”
“That’s what proper environment ensures,” I reply, my voice shaded with just enough humility to be strategic. “When you’re immersed in excellence, it’s only natural to evolve to match it.”
Their eyes shine with naked worship, and I bask in it. Until—
“It must have been amazing growing up with Aria Ellis as your sister,” the tall one ventures.
“She’s so different from you. But in a good way!
She just draws attention at events, especially lately, with Dominic Blackwood .
. .” She falters, dropping to a hush. “People are saying they might be engaged. Is that—”
“The lip color,” I interrupt smoothly, my tone cooling several degrees. “The rose-petal pink, I think. We should keep it natural for the cameras.”
After my cold interruption, the girls go stiff as ironed collars. There’s a flicker of shared panic in the mirror, but then the youngest brightens.
“Oh! We should introduce ourselves,” she rushes, as if protocol might absolve the misstep.
“I’m Mae. That’s Violet, the hair genius, and Rosie’s on gloss.
” She gestures at the girl with the tray of lipsticks, who gives me a wide, hopeful smile.
“We’re all fourth-year apprentices from the Academy.
This is our first studio placement, and we are just truly honored. ”
“And obsessed,” Violet blurts, cheeks flushed. “With you and Mr. Darkmoor. I have the Whispersilk special edition on the Founding Families, the issue with the fold-out spread ranking the ‘Ten Most Devastating Men in Magic and Politics.’ He was number one. Twice.”
Mae nods fervently. “The feature called him, ‘The storm behind Eclipsera’s silence.’ I clipped the article and stuck it on my dorm wall. My roommate kissed the photo.”
“They always say he’s taller in person, but gods . . . they weren’t exaggerating.” Rosie giggles.
They’re openly looking at him now and I don’t blame them.
Alexander occupies the far end of the studio with a tie perfectly knotted, jacket seamless, and not a thread out of place.
The obsidian fabric strains faintly across his shoulders when he shifts, the only hint that there’s more force beneath the surface than any suit was built to contain.
Even now, barely moving, he holds tension in every detail, coiled at the base of his throat, in the way his fingers tap once against the armrest and then still.
The silk of his emerald tie casts a vivid sheen, drawing out the clarity in his eyes, that are sharp and unspeakably clear beneath the dark sweep of his lashes.
A sleek black pen spins idly between his fingers.
Alexander hasn’t looked up, but the girls hold their breath anyway, suspended in the hope that he might.
“He doesn’t even look real,” Violet murmurs, breathless. “My mum swears he hasn’t aged since she was our age.”
“I don’t care how old he is,” Rosie sighs. “If he looked at me the way he looks at that contract, I’d let him dismantle my life in alphabetical order.”
Violet snorts behind her brush. “Do you think Darkmoor Industries hires stylists? Honestly, I’d do anything he asked. Anything. Have you seen those hands?”
Mae fumbles a compact. “He could sign my arrest warrant and I’d ask for a copy to frame.”
They dissolve into synchronized giggles. It’s absurd, scripted, and yet the heat behind my ribs twists sharp.
“He’s married,” I say coolly, keeping the inflection graceful. “Has been for decades.”
Rosie shrugs, totally unrepentant. “A shame, really.”
“And anyway,” Violet adds with nonchalance, “everyone knows about the affairs.”
My stomach knots. It’s childish, irrational, and completely unavoidable. I want to roll my eyes, to laugh it off like someone older and wiser, untouched by petty jealousy. The rumors are old. They have to be.
As if sensing our attention, Alexander looks up from his papers. His gaze sweeps lazily across the studio, landing right on the girls. With a single raised brow, the corner of his mouth tugs upward and he winks.
They combust. One of them actually squeaks. I tighten my grip on the edge of the vanity to stop myself from launching the lip palette across the room.
“Ladies,” a voice slices through the air.
The lead artist arrives in a sweep of cream silk and chilled authority, her gaze flicking from my too-warm cheeks to the flustered trio.
“This is a studio placement, not a fan convention. Back to work. Miss Ellis’s interview begins in twenty minutes, and she will look immaculate. ”
The girls scatter like startled Flarewings, scrambling to rearrange brushes and palettes, murmuring apologies under their breath. In the mirror, I catch them still stealing glances at Alexander between final touches of gloss and curling irons.
From the far end of the studio, Madeline Shaw arrives in a breath of citrus and moonblossom. Her heels strike the floor with punctuated certainty. She wears a tailored silk suit in powdered blue, pressed so crisply it could slice.
“Luna Ellis!” she chirps, as if we’ve known each other for years. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week. You’re going to dazzle.”
I offer a flawless smile. “Thank you. It’s a privilege to be here.”
She leans in conspiratorially. “The Future of Magic: A Daughter’s Promise. A gorgeous title, isn’t it? Your story is what the people need. Heart. Vision. Legacy.” Her eyes flick toward the hallway. “And between us, you’ve got half the production crew halfway in love. You’re going to break records.”
I excuse myself under the pretense of stretching and slip behind the velvet partition, where the light dims and the quiet swallows everything but the faint hum of hover orbs.
Alexander waits in the shadows. He takes one look at my posture—chin lifted a fraction too high, fingers tightening around the hem of my sleeve—and gently closes his hand over mine.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just inevitable.”
I turn slightly, searching his face for assurance, instruction, maybe the reason I can’t seem to exhale. “They’ll ask about the ethics,” I whisper. “About the creatures. The testing.”
He smiles, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then give them beauty,” he says. “A vision so luminous they forget to ask how it was forged. You’re not defending the Apex Initiative. You’re delivering salvation.”
He steps closer and I inhale the dark threads of his cologne. Smoke and cedar. Something distilled and commanding. His hands rise to adjust my shoulders again.
“I don’t want to sound rehearsed,” I murmur.
“You won’t.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re far too clever for that. And far too beautiful.” His voice drops. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that makes you? How effortless it will be for them to adore you?”
My breath hitches.
“If they press, divert. Tilt your head. Ask a question. Something curious, disarming. Lead them off the path without ever appearing to touch the map. Charm is control. Seduction is survival.” He meets my eyes, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear with almost painful care.
“Five minutes, Miss Ellis,” a voice calls. “I need to take you to the stage.”
Alexander straightens, adjusting his already-perfect tie. “Remember, you’re not the danger. You are the promise. Make them believe it.”