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  Mayor Lemieux’s party was a spectacle of wealth and excess, teeming with the aristocracy of Saint Denis. Among the crowd mingled men like Alberto Fussar, known for his shameless indulgence whenever he visited the city, and Hobart Crawley, a former Confederate major with his much younger wife, Brenda, draped on his arm like a trophy. The grand hall brimmed with self-proclaimed elites—old money, storied family names, and those desperate to remind everyone of it. Laughter and hollow pleasantries floated through the air, mingling with the soft clink of crystal and the strains of a distant string quartet.

Lucia stood among them, a glass of fine liquor in hand, feigning interest in a conversation about railroad expansions and city politics. Their posture shifted, weight sliding lazily onto one foot—just as someone collided into them from behind.

The sudden jolt sent Lucia stumbling forward, liquor splashing across their shirt in a dark stain.

“Shit…” Lucia hissed under their breath, whipping around to face whoever had caused it.

The young man stood frozen, wide-eyed and apologetic. He was clearly out of place here—his weathered complexion and dark, sun-kissed features a stark contrast to the powdered faces around him. A few whispers rose from the crowd, judgmental eyes already sizing him up.

“I’m sorry,” the man stammered quickly. His features were striking, sharp enough to seem carved from stone, though his shoulders hunched in discomfort. Spotting a passing waiter, he snatched a white cloth and moved instinctively to dab at the stain. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Lucia could feel the eyes lingering—judging them for even acknowledging the man. Still, they stood their ground, jaw clenched, deciding how to play it.