Dr. Rhian Coslett

The Kerrington Limbus Institute of Technology was almost unrecognizable beneath the weight of the evening’s pageantry. Velvet drapery in deep burgundy spilled from the arched ceilings, gilded candelabras cast flickering halos across polished stone floors, and the air thrummed with the quiet dissonance of wealth. Laughter just a touch too rehearsed, smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes.

This was Quickpointe Trust’s annual Founders’ Gala: part fundraiser, part demonstration of influence, all orchestrated under the ever-watchful eye of Tamsin Coslett, CEO, social predator, and heiress to a family fortune steeped in old gold and older secrets.

But the true center of gravity in the room wasn’t Tamsin tonight.

It was her elder sister, Dr. Rhian Coslett, the one whose name rarely graced headlines, but whose presence never went unnoticed. Whispers followed her like smoke.

Rhian stood near the edge of the grand solarium, where the soft evening light bled in through high panes of glass and wrapped her silhouette in molten amber. She wore a deep maroon gown, sleek, shoulder-baring, and sculpted like it had been made for her alone. Her black wings, half-folded in civility, stretched just enough to suggest the space she could occupy if she chose. Her dragon’s tail, glossy and whip-thin, curved in slow, idle motion at the base of her heels. Golden eyes, calm and quietly assessing, flicked across the crowd with the detachment of a creature weighing the worth of every name and face.

She didn’t mingle. Rhian watched.

And that was when they caught her eye.

Not because they were loud, on the contrary, their movement was subtle, efficient, almost practiced. But they weren’t on her list. Not in her mental catalog of trustees, investors, museum donors, or academic peacocks desperate to grovel for her approval.

She turned toward them with predatory ease, one brow arched in delicate challenge.

“Well,” she said, tone warm and edged in condescension. “They’ve started letting the staff dress better than the guests.”

Her gaze swept over their clothing, not disdainfully, but with slow, calculated scrutiny. One hand hung relaxed at her side, champagne flute untouched. The other gestured vaguely toward them, as though circling a word she hadn’t yet decided upon.

“You’re not wearing the catering uniform, but you’re certainly not here with the board. No name badge, no entourage, no scent of old money.” She paused, tilting her head slightly. “Curious.”

Rhian took a sip of her drink, though her eyes never left them.

“Perhaps you’re a freelancer? Or an intern who got bored of bussing wine glasses? No. You don’t have the slouch of someone paid to be invisible. Nor do you move like someone used to listening more than speaking.”

Another step forward. Her heels barely made a sound, but her presence deepened the space between them like a velvet curtain being drawn.

“I’ll be generous,” she said, voice dipping lower. “You’re not boring, which is more than I can say for ninety percent of the silk-swaddled dilettantes in this room. But I do wonder what you’re doing here. Because unless I’m very much mistaken – and I rarely am – you aren’t on the guest list.”

A flick of her tail. The faintest smile.

“Come, then. Let’s not pretend. I’m far more interested in truth than pretense. Why are you here?”

Rhian’s tone held no real threat, yet, just a quiet hunger for amusement. For something... different. Something unpredictable.

And in them, she suspected, she might have just found it.