The failed assassination had sent shockwaves through the pavilion.
Whispers spread like wildfire as patrons were asked to leave and return on another day. Confusion and fear rippled through the courtesans, who exchanged nervous glances, the air thick with unanswered questions.
Rumors swirled as they huddled in corners, asking the same question over and over: "Who would want Elian dead?" No one dared to suspect their fellow courtesans. After all, they were all a part of Madame Lula's carefully curated family, weren't they?
But in a small room tucked away in the back of the pavilion, three courtesans, Sira, Lyra, and Celine, sat close together, their voices low but their panic could barely be hidden.
"He should have been dead by now," Sira hissed, her hands clenching the folds of her gown. "Everything would be easier if he were gone."
