“It’s not what you think,” he repeats, his voice quieter now, his words fragile as glass.
His denial is suffocating. Before I can speak again, I feel a familiar hand tilt my chin upward. I turn, my body stiffening as my father’s dark gaze meets mine. His hand, firm but measured, guides my face toward him. There’s a faint edge of warning beneath his calm tone.
“My sweet,” he says softly, his voice low but commanding.
I lower my eyes, a gesture of respect I’ve practiced my entire life, though tonight the motion feels heavier. When I lift them, an ache I can’t ignore burrows deep in my bones. My father has never turned his cruelty on me directly, not in the way he does with others, but tonight his words cut deeper than ever. He spoke with full knowledge of Jason’s wandering eye, yet he still made me the centerpiece of this charade, as if my pain were just another piece in his endless game.
“Jason,” Clyde says, voice smooth as polished steel, “would you grant me a moment with my daughter?”
The words are courteous, but the smile he offers Jason is carved too precisely to be warm. Jason stiffens. His gaze meets mine for a breath—hesitant, searching—before shifting to Clyde’s.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he says, the title clipped, respectful. He looks at me once more, then steps aside in silence.
His hand falls from my chin, resting briefly against his chest before he extends his arm. I hesitate, the weight of his expectations pressing down on me, but years of training pull me forward. I slide my hand into the crook of his arm and straighten my posture, though I feel like I’m crumbling inside. He leads me to the center of the room and the crowd parts without hesitation, their heads bowing in deference to the Vampire King.
Around us, the music swells, laughter chimes softly, and dancers spin in perfect synchrony, but none of it touches me. The room is a blur of shimmering gowns and twirling figures, another performance in the unending show of courtly life. Every step feels scripted, every glance rehearsed, every moment choreographed for a story I no longer want to play a part in. My father’s grip remains firm, and the heavy silence makes him seem far away.
“My sweet,” he says at last, though his voice lacks the warmth I once believed it held.
“It has been a long night. Will you forgive my earlier harshness? My anger should have been directed athim, not you.”
His gaze shifts briefly to Jason, who stands near the wall, his posture rigid, his face carefully neutral. My father’s disappointment lingers in the air, his words doing nothing to soothe me. If his anger wasn’t for me, why did it feel like a blade carving through my heart?
More importantly, why had his anger beenforCasper?
The question gnaws at me, lingering like a splinter beneath my skin. My father had looked at him not just with rage, but with something deeper, something possessive. As if Casper’s presence at my side was a personal affront, a challenge rather than a simple transgression. But how? What history lay between them, hidden just beyond my grasp? And why had Casper become a shadow of himself in my father’s presence—his defiance, his fire, vanishing behind a mask I had never seen before?
I lean slightly into him, resting my head briefly on his shoulder. The gesture is meant to bridge the distance, but it feels vacant. Hepresses a kiss to the crown of my head, a motion that might have comforted me once, but now it only deepens the ache.
Tears threaten to rise, but I blink them away. This was supposed to be a celebration, a night of joy, yet it feels more like a battlefield. My father’s veiled disappointment, Jason’s distant gaze, the whispers of betrayal that seem to follow me everywhere—all of it rests like a yoke on my shoulders. And yet, as always, I still yearn for his approval.
“Don’t fret, Father,” I say quietly, a faint smile lifting the corners of my mouth though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Men will be men, one way or another.”
The words taste bitter, but I know they’re what he wants to hear. Leaning in, I press a kiss to his cool cheek, an act of rehearsed affection meant to smooth the jagged edges of the evening.
He hesitates, his face expressionless, before he pulls back. His gaze shifts to Jason, hardening as he steps forward, ready to address the insult to his household. The air around him changes, his authority palpable, and though I know his fury is meant for Jason, I still feel the weight of it.
I can’t bear to be in this room any longer. Without another word, I slip away, my footsteps quiet as I make my way out of the ball room and into the cool hallway beyond. The air here feels cleaner, freer, and the echo of my heels against the stone is the only sound.
I move quickly toward the west wing staircase, each step marking a steady, grounding rhythm that quiets the chaos in my mind. But as I near the first turn, a soft touch grazes my elbow, halting me mid-stride. Even before I turn, I know who it is.
Taking a steadying breath, I turn to face her—the woman with golden eyes that gleam like embers. She stands before me, her posture regal, as though she has every right to challenge me here. As though she belongs. My gaze sweeps over her, taking in the sharp set of her chin, the tilt of her shoulders, the curve of her lips. She doesn’t bother to hide it. Her boldness almost commands admiration, but instead, it stirs something bitter inside me.
A practiced smile forms on my lips, cold yet polite. Withouthesitation, I extend my gloved hand toward her, a mark of civility I don’t feel. She hesitates only for a fraction of a second, her gaze shifting between my eyes and the hand I’ve offered. Then, with calculated elegance, she takes it. Her touch is featherlight, her fingers grazing the silk of my glove as she lowers her head and presses a kiss to my palm. Her curtsy is fluid, precise, every movement carefully measured to project the grace she thinks she possesses.
But as she rises, she steps closer, breaching the space between us. Her breath warms my cheek as she leans in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
“He ismine,” she says, her tone soft yet cutting, each word like an arrow carefully aimed at my chest.
I remain still, letting her audacity echo in the stillness. Most would have faltered by now, their arrogance crumbling beneath the quiet darkness that surrounds me, but not her. She holds her ground, defiance radiating from her in waves.
A soft, bitter laugh escapes my lips, colder than the air surrounding us. I tilt my head toward her, so close now that I can see the subtle unease in her golden eyes. It’s faint, but it’s there—a crack in her confident facade. Slowly, I lean closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I speak, my voice low and stern.
“He’s yours.” I let the words linger, deliberately stretching the silence.
Her shoulders shift slightly, and I catch the flash of relief across her features, the faint relaxation in her stance as she begins to believe she’s won.
I tighten the grip of my hand on hers. The smooth silk of my glove presses against her skin, and I feel her pulse quicken beneath my touch. Slowly, I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, my eyes glinting coldly as I finish.
