(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
"No." Sommer's voice cut clean and decisive.
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Private It's always HOT in Sommer
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(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
She stepped forward and gently took his wrists, lowering them from their panic grip. "We don't cage lions. We don't slam doors in front of myths. If Baird Throne walked into my house tonight, then we don't show him fear—we show him grace."
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(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
"And yet he chose the Gilded Veil tonight." Her tone had shifted—soft, but dangerous. Regal and radiant. "He's not here to make a scene. Not yet. And if he is, he'll be met by the woman who owns this place. Not some frightened staffer with a taser."
Sommer turned to her comm. "Security—VIP protocol. Guest name: Baird Throne. Give him anything he wants. I'll be meeting him personally. No one else approaches him unless I say so."
There was a pause over the channel, then:
Sommer turned to her comm. "Security—VIP protocol. Guest name: Baird Throne. Give him anything he wants. I'll be meeting him personally. No one else approaches him unless I say so."
There was a pause over the channel, then:
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(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
She smirked. "Maybe. But this is my stage, Arq. And I never let a shadow perform without me knowing the choreography."
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer reached for her lipstick—something darker, more dramatic—before grabbing her personal comm earpiece.
"Then wear something fabulous, darling," she said without looking back. "Because tonight, we're entertaining monsters."
She swept from the room like a Queen walking into a war… wrapped in velvet.
"Then wear something fabulous, darling," she said without looking back. "Because tonight, we're entertaining monsters."
She swept from the room like a Queen walking into a war… wrapped in velvet.
Devil in Disguise
The bass rumbled low, like a predator's growl beneath silk sheets. Dancers swirled in syncopated waves of light and flesh, while perfumed smoke kissed the air. The Gilded Veil thrived on indulgence—but even indulgence stilled when Baird Throne stepped inside.
He didn't walk so much as glide, each movement a symphony of liquid elegance and bone-deep menace. Clad in an obsidian longcoat lined with crimson embroidery, Baird Throne was everything the rumors warned of. A creature carved from shadow and decadence. Timeless. Cruel. Seductive.
His eyes—twin garnets glowing faintly in the dim—cut through the haze and locked on a single figure near the platform: Chelsee.
She hadn't seen him yet.
But he had already chosen her.
And he remembered...
Flashback – Weeks Ago
Private Room – The Gilded Veil
"She's not ready, Baird," Arq had said, jaw clenched tighter than his sequin collar. His voice trembled between fear and fury. "She's holding the hunger back now, but it's still there. It waits. And you? You're the kind of mistake that'll wake it up."
Baird's smirk had been slow, surgical. "Isn't that the point?"
"She's not a game to be lost."
"She's not losing," Baird countered. "She's becoming. You see danger. I see evolution."
Then, like smoke curling away from fire, Baird had vanished—before Arq could finish warning him.
Now – Present
The memory vanished like mist off stone. Baird Throne's gaze lingered on Chelsee with that same impossible focus—lust braided with something colder. Possession. Hunger. Certainty.
Her movements were tighter tonight. Controlled. Measured. But she still danced like a creature that didn't yet know the cage inside her chest had a lock that was already rusting.
She would know soon.
He turned, heading toward the mirrored bar, where the Nautolan bartender—skin tinted rose-gold, hands steady with professional fear—noticed him with a visible flinch.
Baird didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The bartender thumbed the data node inlaid beside the register. It pinged once—elegant, ominous.
"Mr. Throne… you've been granted VIP access for the evening," the bartender said with forced calm. "A personal request by the club's owner herself."
Baird's lips moved into something that might have been a smile, if smiles had fangs.
"Miss Dai…" he whispered, savoring the syllables. "What a fascinating change of tone."
The bartender hesitated. "Can I… get you anything, sir?"
Baird's gaze didn't move from Chelsee, who had paused to laugh at something a fellow dancer said.
"Yes," he said at last, voice low, velvet-wrapped steel. "Tell your staff to stay away from Chelsee tonight."
A beat.
"She and I have… unfinished business."
He accepted the offered glass—crystal cut, filled with a blood-colored liquor—but didn't drink. He never drank in public. Not that kind of drink.
Turning back to the crowd, he studied her again.
Tonight, he would prove Arq wrong.
He would show Chelsee what it meant to surrender to the dark.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
She'd show him something older.
Something no man—no monster—had ever truly survived.
The hunger. Set free.
He didn't walk so much as glide, each movement a symphony of liquid elegance and bone-deep menace. Clad in an obsidian longcoat lined with crimson embroidery, Baird Throne was everything the rumors warned of. A creature carved from shadow and decadence. Timeless. Cruel. Seductive.
His eyes—twin garnets glowing faintly in the dim—cut through the haze and locked on a single figure near the platform: Chelsee.
She hadn't seen him yet.
But he had already chosen her.
And he remembered...
Flashback – Weeks Ago
Private Room – The Gilded Veil
"She's not ready, Baird," Arq had said, jaw clenched tighter than his sequin collar. His voice trembled between fear and fury. "She's holding the hunger back now, but it's still there. It waits. And you? You're the kind of mistake that'll wake it up."
Baird's smirk had been slow, surgical. "Isn't that the point?"
"She's not a game to be lost."
"She's not losing," Baird countered. "She's becoming. You see danger. I see evolution."
Then, like smoke curling away from fire, Baird had vanished—before Arq could finish warning him.
Now – Present
The memory vanished like mist off stone. Baird Throne's gaze lingered on Chelsee with that same impossible focus—lust braided with something colder. Possession. Hunger. Certainty.
Her movements were tighter tonight. Controlled. Measured. But she still danced like a creature that didn't yet know the cage inside her chest had a lock that was already rusting.
She would know soon.
He turned, heading toward the mirrored bar, where the Nautolan bartender—skin tinted rose-gold, hands steady with professional fear—noticed him with a visible flinch.
Baird didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The bartender thumbed the data node inlaid beside the register. It pinged once—elegant, ominous.
"Mr. Throne… you've been granted VIP access for the evening," the bartender said with forced calm. "A personal request by the club's owner herself."
Baird's lips moved into something that might have been a smile, if smiles had fangs.
"Miss Dai…" he whispered, savoring the syllables. "What a fascinating change of tone."
The bartender hesitated. "Can I… get you anything, sir?"
Baird's gaze didn't move from Chelsee, who had paused to laugh at something a fellow dancer said.
"Yes," he said at last, voice low, velvet-wrapped steel. "Tell your staff to stay away from Chelsee tonight."
A beat.
"She and I have… unfinished business."
He accepted the offered glass—crystal cut, filled with a blood-colored liquor—but didn't drink. He never drank in public. Not that kind of drink.
Turning back to the crowd, he studied her again.
Tonight, he would prove Arq wrong.
He would show Chelsee what it meant to surrender to the dark.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
She'd show him something older.
Something no man—no monster—had ever truly survived.
The hunger. Set free.
Character
Arq shoved open the kitchen door with his usual drama, but this time, the flourish was tainted by something bitter. Tension radiated off him like static. The kitchen, normally a place of rhythm and joy—the clatter of pans, the sizzle of spice—fell into a hush as he entered.
One of the chefs, a short Mirialan named Treska, glanced up mid-flambé, brows raised. "Is there a fire somewhere, or just you again?"
Arq ignored the banter. He went straight to the prep station and gripped the cold edge of the metal counter, breathing through clenched teeth. His eyes shimmered violet-gold, but there was no mischief in them tonight. Only calculation. Fury. Fear.
His fingers hovered over the crystal decanter that held ceremonial Veil tonic—dark, viscous, blood-colored. One drop and he could lace it. One prick from his mood-ring talon, and Baird Throne's undead gut would burn itself inside out. A showstopper ending. Elegant. Final.
But… not yet.
He hissed through his teeth and turned away.
"Don't let me do something stupid," he muttered, mostly to himself—but Treska caught it and said nothing, just kept searing the protein on her pan with renewed focus.
Then Arq spun back around.
"Get me a porg," he snapped. "Biggest one you have."
Another chef—a grizzled Duros named Whayl—tilted his head. "We're out of the grilled ones until rotation. Why?"
"I don't want it grilled," Arq said tightly. "I want it bled."
Now the kitchen really fell silent.
"Drain it. Chill the blood. Serve it in one of our finest decanters with a whisper of starroot for aroma. You'll deliver it to our honored VIP guest upstairs. Compliments of the house." He glanced down, then added with a bite, "No garlic. Not even close."
Whayl hesitated. "You're really serving him?"
"I'm not going to let him leave saying we're anything less than exquisite," Arq replied, straightening his back like a battlefield general. "Besides. I know what he's thinking."
He turned, the door swinging shut behind him.
One of the chefs, a short Mirialan named Treska, glanced up mid-flambé, brows raised. "Is there a fire somewhere, or just you again?"
Arq ignored the banter. He went straight to the prep station and gripped the cold edge of the metal counter, breathing through clenched teeth. His eyes shimmered violet-gold, but there was no mischief in them tonight. Only calculation. Fury. Fear.
His fingers hovered over the crystal decanter that held ceremonial Veil tonic—dark, viscous, blood-colored. One drop and he could lace it. One prick from his mood-ring talon, and Baird Throne's undead gut would burn itself inside out. A showstopper ending. Elegant. Final.
But… not yet.
He hissed through his teeth and turned away.
"Don't let me do something stupid," he muttered, mostly to himself—but Treska caught it and said nothing, just kept searing the protein on her pan with renewed focus.
Then Arq spun back around.
"Get me a porg," he snapped. "Biggest one you have."
Another chef—a grizzled Duros named Whayl—tilted his head. "We're out of the grilled ones until rotation. Why?"
"I don't want it grilled," Arq said tightly. "I want it bled."
Now the kitchen really fell silent.
"Drain it. Chill the blood. Serve it in one of our finest decanters with a whisper of starroot for aroma. You'll deliver it to our honored VIP guest upstairs. Compliments of the house." He glanced down, then added with a bite, "No garlic. Not even close."
Whayl hesitated. "You're really serving him?"
"I'm not going to let him leave saying we're anything less than exquisite," Arq replied, straightening his back like a battlefield general. "Besides. I know what he's thinking."
He turned, the door swinging shut behind him.
Devil in Disguise
He traced a finger across the back of the velvet couch before lowering himself into it. Legs crossed. Crystal drink untouched in one hand, the other idly brushing the lapel of his coat. Still dressed in shadow-thread and bloodlined embroidery. Regal. Predatory.
But his thoughts… were already elsewhere.
Sommer Dai.
He had never met her. Never even seen her in motion. But whispers of her traveled like incense through the underworld—fragrant, elusive, and potentially dangerous if you inhaled too deeply.
The enigmatic owner of the Gilded Veil.
They said she built it from dust and ashes. That she turned Nar Shaddaa's predators into patrons. That even the broken came here to be whole again… or at least beautifully shattered.
A dreamer, then. Or maybe just clever with illusions.
"She'll try charm," Baird mused inwardly, letting his fingers curl around the untouched glass. "Offer diplomacy. Hospitality. Perhaps even seduction—intentional or not. They all do."
And when that failed…
His smile didn't reach his eyes. It never did.
"She'll realize the same thing they all do in the end—
Courage without power is martyrdom dressed for a party."
He leaned back into the velvet, red eyes glinting like a dying star behind a veil of civility. Calculating. Patient.
Let her come.
He had already begun to imagine how she might unravel.
But his thoughts… were already elsewhere.
Sommer Dai.
He had never met her. Never even seen her in motion. But whispers of her traveled like incense through the underworld—fragrant, elusive, and potentially dangerous if you inhaled too deeply.
The enigmatic owner of the Gilded Veil.
They said she built it from dust and ashes. That she turned Nar Shaddaa's predators into patrons. That even the broken came here to be whole again… or at least beautifully shattered.
A dreamer, then. Or maybe just clever with illusions.
"She'll try charm," Baird mused inwardly, letting his fingers curl around the untouched glass. "Offer diplomacy. Hospitality. Perhaps even seduction—intentional or not. They all do."
And when that failed…
His smile didn't reach his eyes. It never did.
"She'll realize the same thing they all do in the end—
Courage without power is martyrdom dressed for a party."
He leaned back into the velvet, red eyes glinting like a dying star behind a veil of civility. Calculating. Patient.
Let her come.
He had already begun to imagine how she might unravel.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
The Gilded Veil, VIP Lounge – Moments Later
The soft chime of the entry sensor broke the tension like a breath before a storm. The door slid open with a whisper.
Sommer Dai stepped inside.
Not drifted, not stumbled—stepped. With intention. With elegance carved from something deeper than fashion. She was pristine. Regal, even in understatement. A fitted silken tunic of obsidian shimmer, gold-threaded accents along the collar, and matching wide-leg trousers moved like water as she entered. Her hair swept into a high sculpted crown-braid, not a strand out of place. A single earpiece gleamed at her temple like a jeweled crescent moon.
She did not blink at the man sitting like a monarch in her lounge. Her presence didn't challenge his. It absorbed it—made it clear this was her den, not his.
"Baird Throne," she said evenly, her voice like velvet over tempered steel, "you honor us with your attendance."
She moved forward and took a seat opposite him, legs crossed, posture crisp but calm. She didn't need to smile. Her eyes did that work—sharp, discerning, utterly unimpressed.
"Let's get to it," she continued, her tone now clipped and clear. "You're not here for the ambiance. And you're not here for mystery. So tell me—what brings a creature like you to my establishment tonight?"
There it was. No fangs. But no false sweetness either. The warning wrapped in civility. No nonsense would be tolerated. Not here. Not on her floor. Not under her roof.
The soft chime of the entry sensor broke the tension like a breath before a storm. The door slid open with a whisper.
Sommer Dai stepped inside.
Not drifted, not stumbled—stepped. With intention. With elegance carved from something deeper than fashion. She was pristine. Regal, even in understatement. A fitted silken tunic of obsidian shimmer, gold-threaded accents along the collar, and matching wide-leg trousers moved like water as she entered. Her hair swept into a high sculpted crown-braid, not a strand out of place. A single earpiece gleamed at her temple like a jeweled crescent moon.
She did not blink at the man sitting like a monarch in her lounge. Her presence didn't challenge his. It absorbed it—made it clear this was her den, not his.
"Baird Throne," she said evenly, her voice like velvet over tempered steel, "you honor us with your attendance."
She moved forward and took a seat opposite him, legs crossed, posture crisp but calm. She didn't need to smile. Her eyes did that work—sharp, discerning, utterly unimpressed.
"Let's get to it," she continued, her tone now clipped and clear. "You're not here for the ambiance. And you're not here for mystery. So tell me—what brings a creature like you to my establishment tonight?"
There it was. No fangs. But no false sweetness either. The warning wrapped in civility. No nonsense would be tolerated. Not here. Not on her floor. Not under her roof.
Devil in Disguise
Across from her, Baird smiled.
It was the kind of smile that didn't belong in polite conversation. Not really. Not unless you wanted to make people nervous.
"I'm simply a guest," he said, swirling the crimson drink in his glass, though he still hadn't tasted it. "A well-dressed patron, curious about the excellence of your house."
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to add a shadow of intimacy to his voice.
"And I'm here to see my favorite performer," he said slowly, each syllable deliberate. "Perform."
A pause.
"I believe," he added with theatrical politeness, "I have every right to do so."
His gaze was steady. Daring. Hungry beneath the cool exterior.
And Sommer Dai, whose poise didn't falter, sat back with a deliberate breath.
The game had begun.
It was the kind of smile that didn't belong in polite conversation. Not really. Not unless you wanted to make people nervous.
"I'm simply a guest," he said, swirling the crimson drink in his glass, though he still hadn't tasted it. "A well-dressed patron, curious about the excellence of your house."
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to add a shadow of intimacy to his voice.
"And I'm here to see my favorite performer," he said slowly, each syllable deliberate. "Perform."
A pause.
"I believe," he added with theatrical politeness, "I have every right to do so."
His gaze was steady. Daring. Hungry beneath the cool exterior.
And Sommer Dai, whose poise didn't falter, sat back with a deliberate breath.
The game had begun.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer's fingers drummed once—lightly—against the armrest of her chair. Her gaze remained fixed on Baird, unfazed by the way he seemed to toy with tension like a violinist on stage.
She didn't blink.
"Oh," she said with a dry edge, "so this is your version of charm. Subtle threats wrapped in velvet and half-smiles."
She leaned forward now, just a hair—just enough for her voice to drop in temperature.
"If you came here expecting theatrics, I suggest you take them elsewhere. My stage is for dancers, not dramatics. I run a sanctuary here, Baird—but mine is built on respect, not fear."
Her words hung in the air like the final notes of a slow, sultry song
She didn't blink.
"Oh," she said with a dry edge, "so this is your version of charm. Subtle threats wrapped in velvet and half-smiles."
She leaned forward now, just a hair—just enough for her voice to drop in temperature.
"If you came here expecting theatrics, I suggest you take them elsewhere. My stage is for dancers, not dramatics. I run a sanctuary here, Baird—but mine is built on respect, not fear."
Her words hung in the air like the final notes of a slow, sultry song
Devil in Disguise
But Baird's grin didn't fade. If anything, it deepened. His fingers stilled around the crystal glass.
"Tsk," he said quietly, "you wound me, Miss Dai. You mistake vision for vanity."
He sat back again, lounging like a serpent relaxing between coils.
"I didn't come here for a fight. Quite the opposite, really."
He let the silence stretch before continuing, savoring the weight of his own words.
"I came with an offer."
Sommer tilted her head, skeptical but listening.
"A partnership," Baird said smoothly, folding one leg over the other. "You see, I'm building something of my own. A sanctuary, if you will. Not as… open as yours. A place with curated clientele."
His eyes glinted red.
"For blood-drinkers only."
"Tsk," he said quietly, "you wound me, Miss Dai. You mistake vision for vanity."
He sat back again, lounging like a serpent relaxing between coils.
"I didn't come here for a fight. Quite the opposite, really."
He let the silence stretch before continuing, savoring the weight of his own words.
"I came with an offer."
Sommer tilted her head, skeptical but listening.
"A partnership," Baird said smoothly, folding one leg over the other. "You see, I'm building something of my own. A sanctuary, if you will. Not as… open as yours. A place with curated clientele."
His eyes glinted red.
"For blood-drinkers only."
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
Sommer's expression didn't change—but her stillness sharpened. Like a blade sheathed in velvet.
Devil in Disguise
"A haven for those of us who live in... richer hues," Baird continued, clearly enjoying himself. "Discrete. Luxurious. Safe. No moral grandstanding. No fearful glances. Just exquisite indulgence."
He gestured slightly toward her.
"And I thought—perhaps—you'd appreciate being on the ground floor. A fellow curator of ambiance. Beauty. Control."
A pause, then a smirk.
"And if not… well, I still look forward to tonight's performance."
The underlying tone was clear: He had plans. With or without her.
He gestured slightly toward her.
"And I thought—perhaps—you'd appreciate being on the ground floor. A fellow curator of ambiance. Beauty. Control."
A pause, then a smirk.
"And if not… well, I still look forward to tonight's performance."
The underlying tone was clear: He had plans. With or without her.
(Gilded Veil)- Founder / C.E.O.
The Gilded Veil, VIP Lounge – Moments Later
Sommer's lips curved in a slow, lethal smile—one forged from tempered steel and starlight.
"Baird Throne," she said, voice soft but deadly, "let me be perfectly clear. If you try anything—anything at all—I will carve your essence into pieces and ship them to every crustacean outpost, every cantina, every senate chamber and backwater smuggler's den in the galaxy. You will become a cautionary tale so vivid that no one will dare utter your name without trembling."
Her gaze locked on his, unblinking, the promise hanging between them like a drawn blade.
Sommer's lips curved in a slow, lethal smile—one forged from tempered steel and starlight.
"Baird Throne," she said, voice soft but deadly, "let me be perfectly clear. If you try anything—anything at all—I will carve your essence into pieces and ship them to every crustacean outpost, every cantina, every senate chamber and backwater smuggler's den in the galaxy. You will become a cautionary tale so vivid that no one will dare utter your name without trembling."
Her gaze locked on his, unblinking, the promise hanging between them like a drawn blade.
Devil in Disguise
Baird chuckled—a low, smooth sound. He raised one jeweled eyebrow, as though amused by her veiled threat.
"Delightful," he purred. "Truly. You have the fierceness I admire." He tapped a single fingertip on the rim of his glass. "Do consider my proposal, Miss Dai. A mutual venture—yours and mine—could redefine indulgence in this sector."
He paused, and for a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—his predatory mask slipped, replaced by candid intent.
"Between you and me, I'm here tonight for one reason only: Chelsee. I want to see her perform up close. The rumors, the grace, the electricity she commands on that stage… I've been waiting a lifetime for this."
"Delightful," he purred. "Truly. You have the fierceness I admire." He tapped a single fingertip on the rim of his glass. "Do consider my proposal, Miss Dai. A mutual venture—yours and mine—could redefine indulgence in this sector."
He paused, and for a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—his predatory mask slipped, replaced by candid intent.
"Between you and me, I'm here tonight for one reason only: Chelsee. I want to see her perform up close. The rumors, the grace, the electricity she commands on that stage… I've been waiting a lifetime for this."