CHAPTER 120: THE LOOK AND POUT

Julie leaned closer to Samantha, the warm hum of music and chatter masking their voices.

Roman and Lazarus were deep in their own world, their words low and edged, but her friend’s mischievous glance pulled Julie out of it.

"Don’t look," Samantha whispered, her lips barely moving as she lifted her glass of champagne.

"But tell me if you noticed the queen’s makeup tonight. She looks like a porcelain doll that’s about to crack."

Julie stifled a laugh, hiding it behind her hand. "Samantha... you’re terrible. I did notice though. It’s so heavy—like she dipped her whole face in powder."

"Exactly," Samantha muttered, sipping slowly, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, anywhere but the queen’s direction. "And those lashes... if she blinks too fast, someone might mistake it for a fan."

Julie bit her lower lip, her shoulders trembling as she tried not to burst into laughter.

She knew the art of gossip well—the number one rule was never to glance toward the person you spoke of.

Her gaze remained firmly on the golden embroidery of the tablecloth.

Then Julie leaned in a little closer to Samantha, lowering her voice as if about to share the deepest of secrets.

Her expression turned mock-serious, her brows knitting as though she were about to lecture on a matter of life and death.

"Did you know the number one rule of gossip?" Julie asked, lips twitching with the effort not to laugh.

Samantha straightened in her chair, her chin tilted with exaggerated primness.

"Of course," she replied without daring even the quickest glance toward the queen’s table.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the glass in front of her as if it were the most fascinating jewel in the room.

"Never look at the person you’re gossiping about. Otherwise, they’ll know."

Julie’s shoulders shook, stifling a laugh, and Samantha leaned closer, her tone conspiratorial.

"And that makeup—tell me honestly—doesn’t it look like she borrowed a doll’s face and forgot to give it back?"

Julie nearly choked on a sip of her drink, pressing her napkin to her lips. "Samantha! Stop—you’ll make me laugh too loudly."

But Samantha only smirked, whispering back, "I’m just saving you from nightmares later. Imagine that face following you in the dark halls."

Julie giggled under her breath, her hand covering her smile as the two of them continued their quiet exchange, the queen still oblivious to the way her "doll’s face" had become the entertainment of the evening.

"She’s been sitting there like a doll too," Julie added quietly. "Not moving, just... staring and her stiff smile. It’s unnerving."

"Oh, it’s not unnerving, it’s tragic," Samantha countered, her tone dry and amused. "Imagine wearing all that just to look like you’re made of wax. I’d rather die."

Both girls exchanged the tiniest smirk, their eyes never once darting toward the queen’s table. It was skill, it was survival, and it was fun.

Mr. Belenti leaned back with a courteous smile at Roman and Lazarus before rising.

"My apologies, gentlemen," he said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. "I must excuse myself. There are important guests I must greet before the evening progresses."

Roman inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Of course."

Lazarus gave a short nod, watching the older man drift away into the glittering crowd.

The moment he left, Lazarus leaned closer to Roman, his voice dropping, "We shouldn’t waste time on old rumors.

" What we need now is structure—something to keep the territories steady. I’ve been considering establishing a new hub, one that doesn’t just bring profit, but influence."

Roman swirled the wine in his glass slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. "And influence is always bought with patience. If you rush this, you’ll draw attention."

Lazarus smirked faintly. "Then guide me, Roman. What would you do differently?"

Roman leaned back slightly in his chair, the golden light from the chandelier above striking sharp edges across his features.

His fingers lingered on the rim of the glass, tapping it once—soft, deliberate, a rhythm that carried more weight than words.

The wine clung to the crystal like a thin sheet of velvet, catching the reflection of the hall’s brilliance.

"You want structure," Roman said at last, his voice even, quiet enough that only Lazarus could hear. "Then you must decide whether you want it to last a season... or a generation."

Lazarus’s smirk deepened, but there was a restless spark in his gaze, like a wolf too long kept on a leash.

"A generation is too long, Roman. My men don’t wait. The streets don’t wait. People forget power if it doesn’t crush them often enough."

Roman turned his head slowly, finally letting his dark eyes settle on him.

The weight of that look pressed more heavily than any words. "People don’t forget power," he murmured.

"They forget noise. What they remember is who fed them, who clothed them, who controlled the air they breathed without them noticing it. That is real power, Lazarus. The kind that becomes untouchable."

For a moment, silence pooled between them, broken only by the faint clink of cutlery from other tables, the muted laughter of nobles pretending they weren’t watching.

Lazarus drummed his fingers against the table, impatience bleeding through despite the elegant setting.

"So you’re telling me to starve them with velvet gloves instead of iron chains?" Lazarus tilted his head, his grin edged.

Roman’s lips curved, not in humor, but in something closer to disdain.

He set his glass down carefully, the crystal ringing softly against polished wood.

"I’m telling you to think beyond your ego. Chains rust. Fear fades. But dependency—" his tone shifted lower, colder, "—dependency roots itself in their bones. If you build a hub, make it something they cannot live without. Not a marketplace. A pulse. Make it so when it beats, they breathe. When it stops, they suffocate."

The smirk on Lazarus’s face faltered. His eyes flickered, narrowing in calculation. "You speak like you’ve already done this."

Roman didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the grand hall—past the glittering tables, the painted ceilings, the queen herself seated like a porcelain figure.

Then he leaned back, voice almost a whisper now.

"Power isn’t declared, Lazarus. It’s already in place before anyone realizes who placed it there."

The words slid into the silence like a blade, smooth and merciless.

Lazarus gave a low chuckle, though the sound lacked its earlier ease.

He swirled his drink, feigning nonchalance. "Then perhaps I should learn to place it... properly."

Roman’s expression didn’t change. He simply lifted his glass again, as if sealing the conversation with the subtle ring of crystal.

Julie and Samantha turned almost at the same time, their eyes drawn to the low, intent voices of Roman and Lazarus.

The two men were deep in conversation—sharp words slipping like steel, their gazes narrowed, their hands making slight, cutting gestures as though sketching out punishments in the air.

Neither of them noticed the way the girls had gone utterly still.

Julie’s lips pressed together, a soft pout forming as her wide eyes studied Roman’s profile.

The hard set of his jaw, the commanding timbre of his voice—she felt both unsettled and drawn in, like she was staring at a storm she couldn’t look away from.

Beside her, Samantha’s arms folded lightly across her chest, her bottom lip jutting out in the smallest sulk as her gaze stayed locked on Lazarus.

The dangerous gleam in his eyes made her heart pound, but the longer she watched, the more her pout deepened, as though silently protesting the dark world he was so comfortable in.

It wasn’t until Roman leaned back slightly, his hand brushing the air with a dismissive flick, that he finally sensed it—that heavy gaze on him.

He turned, and for a fraction of a second, even Roman froze. Julie’s wide eyes met his, her pout betraying her thoughts.

Across from him, Lazarus also caught himself mid-sentence, his words dying as he noticed Samantha’s stare—arms crossed, eyes too sharp and lips pressed into a delicate pout.

For once, the men were caught off guard.

Roman blinked, then arched a brow, his mouth curving slowly as though amused by Julie’s silent protest.

Lazarus let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair, clearly entertained by Samantha’s unspoken defiance.

The girls had not said a word. They didn’t need to.

The weight of their eyes had been louder than anything.

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