“She’s not a god damn Huntington-Russell or a Taft—She’s a Herron,” he says, his eyes locked on Ford first, then sliding to Archie with a glare sharp enough to kill. “Titles, fortunes, names—it doesn’t matter. I’m the richest and most powerful man in this Brotherhood, and nothing will touch her. Not now, not ever.”
The weight of his words fills the air, suffocating, final. My heart stutters in my chest, torn between fear and the sharp, twisted comfort of his dominance.
Archie takes a long drag of his cigarette, watching Hayden with lazy amusement. Then, with perfect timing, he exhales and smirks. “Christ, Herron. If you’re done pissing on the floor to mark your territory, maybe sit down before you rip your stitches open.”
Hayden’s chest rises like a storm about to break. The sound that rips out of him isn’t a word at first—it’s a roar, guttural and unrestrained, echoing off the high ceilings. He surges forward, swinging wide at Archie with a fist meant to shatter bone.
But his side catches fire mid-motion, the stitches pulling viciously. The blow cuts short, his body folding as his hand shoots to his ribs, blood already seeping through the fresh bandage.
Archie doesn’t flinch. He only throws his head back and laughs, the cigarette bobbing at the corner of his mouth. “Careful, Herron.”
Ford's fresh laughter rolls through the room, light and merciless, a sharp contrast to Hayden’s ragged breath.
Hayden’s breath comes in rough gasps, his knuckles white where they clutch his side. Archie is still chuckling, smoke curling lazily around his grin like nothing in the world could touch him.
Then Ford walks closer to the three of us, shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His voice cuts through the madness, dry but edged with something almost like relief.
“Fuck,” he mutters, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “I missed you guys.”
For a beat, the whole room stills, suspended between blood and laughter, between old wounds and new ones. And somehow, the absurdity of it makes the silence even heavier.
Epilogue
Dale Danton-Taft
One Week Later
The air in the ballroom is honey-thick with perfume and laughter. Everywhere I look, it’s gold sconces and cigarette smoke, champagne fizzing over the rims of crystal flutes, and the glossy sheen of wealth. There’s something primitive and powerful in the air tonight, and it’s suffocating. I gulp down a gasping breath, trying to avoid being sick on the ballroom floor.
A haunting feeling rests in my gut, difficult to choke down. The champagne in my hand offers no reprieve from the gnawing, churning feeling I can’t escape at this spectacle of commitment.
Hayden threw this party in Martine's honor. With a hasty marriage and a less-than-easy induction into the Brotherhood, Martine deserved a celebration for all she’s gone through these past two years. And while we’ve suffered similarly at the handsof the Brotherhood, it’s only one of us emerging dripping in emeralds, unscathed.
I stand at the edge of it all, the picture of composure, champagne flute balanced between my fingers, my black bob sharp against the pale gleam of my shoulders. The sparkling mini Chanel dress I chose hugs my body like a vice. My small metallic stilettos, which pair perfectly with the dress, are squeezing my feet, adding to the discomfort of an already devastating night.
So many eyes rest on my skin, but none belong to the man that I truly want. I wanted Ford to see me tonight and find me irresistible in this tiny dress. I wanted him to look andseeme. But of course, desire always leaves me wanting as I stand here without his consideration.
He’s across the room, a haunting silhouette in sharp tailoring, his jaw carved by the kind of cruelty that comes from privilege. His eyebrows are slightly darker than his hair, and his cheeks have hollowed somewhat from his time away. He looks far sharper and more threatening than ever before. He’s speaking to Archie—about something I’ll never have the advantage of being privy to.
Both men are nearly the tallest in the room, aside from Hayden and Hudson, the largest of the four. And it’s Hudson who walks up to Ford, shaking his hand and giving him a clap on the back, greeting each other as old friends, as I stand here alone in a sea of people, not really belonging anywhere.
I look at them, smartly clad in devastatingly handsome suits. Hudson's green eyes shine in the room, but they’re no match for Ford’s icy grey.
The gnawing feeling worsens when I begin to compare Ford to his twin Dex, whose blue eyes could make the sky rage in jealousy.
No, these are ghosts I won't dig up.
I swallow the burn in my throat and lift the glass again, pretending not to care as I swallow down an uncomfortably large gulp of champagne. I’ve been pretending my entire life. That’s what we do best—Tafts, Dantons, all of us. We pretend. Pretend we’re still Legacies as if we have anything left other than our titles.
We pretend to be the faultless example of excellence. Dripping in superiority, the Tafts are founding members of the Brotherhood, and yet here I stand, the firstborn of a legacy founder, with about as much power as a footstool.
Laughter catches my attention, and I could recognize that exquisite example of purity anywhere.
Martine Huntington-Russell, now Herron, glides through the crowd, the emeralds on her choker shining in the sconce light almost as obnoxiously as the fat emerald encased in diamonds on her ring finger. And next to her—of course—Hayden Herron. Always impossibly composed, head bent toward her as if anything in the world would be at her disposal. When she laughs, there’s a crack in his terrifying demeanor. He no longer looks one second away from snuffing out a life. No. He looks at her like she’s something divine.
It makes my stomach twist.
Everywhere they go, the crowd parts—out of respect, but also because the intensity of their love is something that makes people uncomfortable. It’s too raw, too consuming. I hate them for it. I envy them for it.
