Nightfall ✓

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[FRN]: a small jump using both legs.

AFTER HER PERFORMANCE as Giselle, Clo Beauchamp became the youngest member to be awarded the position of a principal dancer. Too bad those memories were nothing but a haze to her. She was still too heartbroken to get a grip on herself.

One memory remained, though.

A week after her performance, she was coming back from her institute after practice when a wave of dizziness made her change her route and step into a small cafe. While she usually avoided coffee and sweets, the sweet smell of cinnamon rolls made her stomach growl, letting her know that the last time she ate properly was at the pizza party her madame had thrown after their successful performance.

Getting her order, she made her way over to the far left corner of the shop, away from the few other people and sat down. It was nearing three in the afternoon and traffic had slowed down considerably. Occasionally, people passed by the window and looked back at her. Despite her young age, Clo had become quite a celebrity after her performance.

"He misses you, you know?" A voice came from in front of her, startling her slightly before she relaxed.

In a city run by Varjot, fear had no place being.

Alexander Ricci, the king of Varjot, sat opposite her, cutting into the cinnamon roll she still hadn't touched before he gave her the bigger piece. He smiled as if he'd done her a favour. And he probably had. Rumor mill had it that people sent the man thank you cards if he let them leave his office with chopping something off or killing them.

"I would miss my culprit as well," she finally murmured, taking a bite of the sugary bread before pushing it towards Alexander.

The man looked delighted.

He had an aristocratic look to him. People, even without knowing who he was, seemed to show respect — submission. Today, he wore all black with the exception of a navy blue shirt but even that was so dark, one won't be able to notice it. It made for a terrifying contrast against his pale skin.

"In honour of you, I have not had a single taste of that boy, madam Beauchamp." Clo's chest constricted before she let out a pained breath. Alexander smiled apologetically. "Amara is really looking after him. You shouldn't worry too much. Others have it worse." He looked outside the window this time, eyes twinkling in sick amusement.

He had his own toy waiting for him in the tinted SUV parked outside.

Clo felt sick.

"Seeing you as Gisele... seeing you cry like that—" he paused for a moment, shaking his head, "— reminded me of why I don't discriminate between boys and girls. I made it a particularly special night for my boy. By the end, he was crying just like you were, madam Clo." He sighed as if contented before grinning. "It's too bad I've been requested to take my hands off him."

She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, forcing herself to not slump into the chair.

"Who is he?" She whispered cautiously.

"Conrad Miller."

Son of the current president. Did his father know? Probably. They were all puppets of Varjot.