the real formula. And it was still here. Which meant Tarkus had delivered… Minola drew a sharp breath of pure fury. Her fingers, usually so precise, trembled as she stared at the glowing screen. The *real* formula. Oswin, that sniveling, preening peacock, currently possessed the complete, operational schematics for the Lux-Vitae serum, including its most volatile black-market applications. He had the key to unraveling Gilded Mantis. Not just financially, but ethically, socially. The potential for rogue syndicates to weaponize or mass-produce a flawed version of Lux-Vitae, flooding the capital with dangerous, unregulated bioproducts, was a disaster waiting to strike. She slammed the comm panel shut, the faint *thwack* echoing in the opulent silence of her private lounge. Her gaze snapped to Davorin, whose lips still curved in that infuriatingly charming, half-smirk. He was toying with her. He had to be. “You knew,” she stated, her voice a low purr that barely masked the razor’s edge beneath it. “You knew which drive was which, didn’t you?” Davorin’s smile widened, amused mischief gleaming in his dark eyes. “Minola, my dear. I merely expressed a *hunch*. As for Tarkus, well, he’s a loyal man. Loyal to *you*. I simply provided him with options.” He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, his bespoke suit rippling with the movement. “And one of those options happened to be the authentic article. A minor misdirection, wouldn’t you agree? For theatrical amusement, of course.” Her jaw tightened. Entertainment. He had risked her entire empire for *entertainment*. Yet, a perverse part of her, the part that thrived on chaos and never backed down from a challenge, felt a flicker of something else. Respect, perhaps? Annoyance, certainly. “A prank that now puts my entire research division, and potentially the health of half the metropolitan elite, at risk,” she countered, pushing herself up from the plush chaise. Her movements were fluid, predatory. “Oswin Jerrick, with access to these schematics, will not hesitate to hawk them to the highest bidder if it means funding Saskia’s latest manufactured malady.” “Indeed,” Davorin agreed, a theatrical sigh escaping his lips. “Such a shame. All that brilliance, wasted on a man who believes a kidney-shaped diamond is appropriate compensation for… well, you know.” His eyes twinkled. “But I imagine you have a plan, Minola. You always do. And this *does* complicate your grand humiliation of Oswin, doesn’t it? The man who holds the blade to your throat, yet still thinks he can win you back with a pathetic display of open groveling.” As if on cue, a muted, yet undeniably insistent, *oom-pah-pah* drifted through the reinforced windows of Gilded Mantis Tower. Minola’s eyes narrowed. “What fresh idiocy is he orchestrating now?” Davorin rose, stretching languidly. “I believe it’s an outdoor spectacle, darling. A serenade. Perhaps an apology in brass and velvet?” He strode to the floor-to-ceiling vista-screen, tapping a control. The opaque crystal shimmered, then cleared to reveal the crowded boulevard below. And what a spectacle it was. Blocking the entire expanse of the Grand Processional beyond the lobby’s main gates was a parade of such monumental tackiness, it defied belief. A marching band, dressed in garish cerulean and gold uniforms, blared a painfully off-key rendition of “Minola, My Love,” a mawkish ballad from the early aughts. At the head of the procession, perched precariously atop a float shaped like a gigantic, weeping golden heart, sat Oswin Jerrick. He was dressed in a pristine white suit, clutching a bouquet of oversized, long-stemmed crimson roses, each one almost certainly genetically modified for maximum, artificial vibrancy. Behind him, a legion of uniformed servants carried placards emblazoned with phrases like “Forgive Me, My Lioness!” and “My Heart Bleeds For You, Minola!” A dozen drones zipped overhead, trailing banners that spelled out “MINOLA VESPARI, I’M NOTHING WITHOUT YOU!” in sparkling, simulated stardust. Minola stared, a slow, incredulous laugh bubbling up from her chest. “He’s lost his mind,” she declared, though a thrill of vindication also coursed through her. This was the pathetic, groveling Oswin she’d always envisioned. Just… more brazen. More… *loud*. “A desperate man,” Davorin observed, chuckling freely this time. “And utterly oblivious. He holds the real Lux-Vitae formula, yet thinks a marching band will restore his fortunes and your affections. The irony is quite delicious.” Minola spun away from the window, her mind already racing. The dare. She still hadn’t backed down from bankrupting him. And now, she had to retrieve the drive without letting him realize its true value. It was a tightrope walk over a chasm of corporate ruin. “We need that drive back,” she said, her voice firm. “Before he realizes what he has. Before he sells it to some second-rate biomaterials syndicate in the Periphery, just to spite me.” “Agreed,” Davorin said, his easygoing demeanor replaced by a sharp, calculating glint. “But how? He’ll be guarding it like a dragon’s hoard, even if he doesn’t understand its true worth. And attempting to *steal* it outright might trigger an early sale if he suspects you’re interested.” Minola paced the length of the lounge, her heels clicking softly on the polished obsidian floor. “He’s holding that ghastly charity gala next week, isn’t he? The one where Saskia will inevitably make another dramatic, fabricated appeal for ‘charity’ to fund her ‘ailing health’?” “The Annual Jerrick Philanthropic Soirée,” Davorin confirmed. “A veritable who’s who of high society, eager to see Saskia’s next performance. And perhaps witness the sudden downfall of her paramour.” “Perfect,” Minola murmured, a sly smile gracing her lips. “A crowded, chaotic environment. And if Saskia is performing, then Oswin will be distracted. He’ll want to show off his… *devotion*.” She paused, a new thought sparking. “Do you remember that Kastelvian truth-serum synthesizer we encountered at the Aurelian Summit? The one that looked like a ridiculously ornate perfume atomiser?” Davorin’s eyebrows rose. “The *Veritas-Veritas*. A charming little device. Synthesizes a potent, untraceable aerosolized neurotoxin that compels complete honesty for precisely fifteen minutes, after which the subject experiences a delightful, memory-wiping fugue. A highly illegal, yet wonderfully effective party favor.” He grinned. “You propose we deploy it?” “Not on Oswin,” Minola clarified, shaking her head. “Too risky. He might blurt out details about the drive. No, we deploy it on Saskia.” Davorin gave a rich, approving laugh. “Minola Vespari, you truly are a titan. Exposing Saskia’s fake illnesses on live television, at Oswin’s own gala, while simultaneously retrieving your invaluable property. A masterstroke of vindication and corporate espionage.” “It’s the only way to create enough confusion, enough *scandal*, to get close to Oswin without raising suspicion,” Minola explained, her mind already mapping out the logistics. “While everyone is captivated by Saskia’s televised breakdown, we make our move. You distract Oswin, I secure the drive.” “A dangerous dance, my dear,” Davorin mused, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. “But one I’m quite eager to lead.” He reached for her hand, his thumb tracing the delicate pulse at her wrist. “Consider me your accomplice, your confidant, your… chaos facilitator.” Before Minola could pull away from his warm touch, her private comm console chimed insistently. An incoming call. From Oswin. She hesitated, then tapped to accept. His face, still smeared with theatrical tears from his ridiculous pageant, filled the screen. “Minola, my darling,” he simpered, his voice thick with what he clearly believed was heartfelt emotion. “My parade… did you see it? Did it touch your heart?” “It certainly touched my sense of the ridiculous, Oswin,” Minola replied, her tone icily calm. “What do you want?” His expression shifted, a flicker of his old arrogance peeking through the groveling facade. “I want you to be my date to the Jerrick Soirée next week. As my… partner. To show Valerand that we are reunited.” Minola scoffed. “Never.” Oswin’s smile tightened, turning predatory. “Oh, I think you will, my love. I’ve just been contacted by the Morvanth Collective, a rather… enthusiastic group, interested in some experimental biotech schematics I ‘acquired.’ They’re willing to pay a hefty sum, enough to fund Saskia’s cure and then some, for what I’ve told them is a ‘revolutionary, if unproven, serum.’ I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but it has your company’s logo on the data stick. And if you’re not on my arm at that gala, Minola, I’ll sell them every last bit of it, just to spite you.

The Apology Parade