The Art Institute glittered like a lie that had been polished too carefully.
Crystal chandeliers threw light onto marble floors, champagne flutes chimed like fragile promises, and every smile in the room felt rehearsed. I walked beside Lucas, my hand tucked into the crook of his arm, diamonds heavy at my throat—his choice, his claim.
“Relax,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear as cameras flashed. “Tonight, you’re untouchable.”
That word—untouchable—made my skin prickle. Because it meant owned.
When we stepped into the center of the room, the noise softened, like the crowd instinctively knew something was about to happen. Lucas lifted a glass. The room leaned in.
“My wife,” he said, his voice smooth, confident. “And the only partner I recognize as my future.”
A beat. Then the meaning landed.
Whispers rippled. I felt them before I heard them—Moretti cousins stiffening, old men tightening their jaws, women smiling too tightly. He hadn’t just introduced me. He’d drawn a line through bloodlines and expectations.
I smiled because that’s what I do when I’m being used as a weapon.
Lucas’s fingers squeezed mine, just enough to remind me this announcement wasn’t a gift. It was a test. Of loyalty. Of endurance. Of how much fire I could stand before I broke.
As applause swelled, I saw Gabriel across the room, his gaze unreadable. Not surprised. Not angry. Calculating.
Then a tray brushed my elbow.
“Careful,” a low voice murmured.
I didn’t need to look to know it was Daniel.
He stood beside me in a waiter’s jacket, eyes shadowed, familiar in a way that made my chest ache. As he adjusted a glass, he slipped something into my palm. A folded square of paper, warm from his skin.
Lucas was involved in my “death.” Three years ago. Not collateral. Intentional.
My breath caught. I kept my smile fixed, thanked him for the champagne, and let him melt back into the crowd like a ghost with unfinished business.
I excused myself minutes later, blaming the heat, the lights, the weight of the jewels. On the terrace, the city stretched out below, cold and indifferent. I unfolded the note with shaking fingers.
Lucas. Daniel. Blood on both their hands.
Behind me, voices drifted closer. I pressed myself into the shadow, heart hammering.
“…she’s stronger than you expected,” Gabriel was saying.
Lucas exhaled, sharp. “Strength isn’t loyalty.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Gabriel replied. “She’s not like the others.”
A pause. Then Lucas’s voice, quieter. “Her father is still alive. That makes her predictable.”
My world tilted.
“Where?” Gabriel asked.
Lucas didn’t answer immediately. I imagined his eyes narrowing, weighing trust like currency. “Somewhere safe,” he said finally. “Hidden. Useful.”
Useful. The word sliced through me.
I stepped back before my heels betrayed me, pulse roaring. My father wasn’t dead. He was a bargaining chip.
The night fractured after that.
Shouts. A sharp crack that wasn’t thunder. Someone screamed.
I turned just as chaos exploded—men surging from the side entrance, blades flashing in the museum light. Panic ripped through the room, silk gowns tangling with fear.
I felt Lucas move before I understood why.
He shoved me back, hard, and pain bloomed in his side as the knife went in.
“No!” I caught him as he fell, blood soaking my gloves, my dress, my hands. Real blood. Too warm. Too much.
His eyes fluttered. For a terrifying second, the room fell away, and it was just us—no lies, no roles.
“Scarlett,” he breathed. “The insurance box… the painting…”
Then he went still.
Sirens wailed. People cried. Security swarmed.
I screamed his name because I couldn’t stop myself. Because even knowing what he was, my body reacted before my mind could catch up. Because somewhere between cages and threats and touches that lingered too long, something dangerous had taken root.
Daniel watched from across the room, horror and jealousy warring in his eyes.
Gabriel stood unnervingly calm.
Later—much later—I learned the truth.
The knife hadn’t been poisoned. The attackers weren’t rivals. They were loyalists, fed just enough information to play their part. The blood loss was controlled. The damage measured.
Lucas had staged the entire thing.
To see who would flinch. Who would betray him. Who would mourn.
And I had failed the test spectacularly.
Because when he opened his eyes in the ambulance and found me still holding his hand, something like satisfaction flickered there—quick, lethal.
“You care,” he murmured, barely audible.
I wanted to slap him. To kiss him. To run.
Instead, I stayed.
Because my father was alive.
Because Daniel had lied.
Because Gabriel was watching.
And because I was starting to realize the most dangerous masquerade at this ball wasn’t the one we wore for the world—
It was the one I was wearing for myself.