The ballroom emptied slowly.Not with screaming. Not with fights. With indifference. With pity. The kind that burns deeper than cruelty ever could.
The investors left first. Sharp suits and sharper smiles tucked into town cars and blacked-out SUVs. The politicians lingered a little longer. Enough to sip once more at dying power. Enough to memorize who to avoid next.
Then they, too, disappeared into the velvet night. The servers cleaned. The champagne cooled. The chandeliers hummed overhead like the world hadn’t just cracked open under my knees.
Barron didn’t come back. Not to the ballroom. Not to us. Not even to himself. The last I saw of him was the stiff set of his shoulders walking through the shattered glass doors. Not looking back. Not looking at me. Just disappearing. A king abdicating without ceremony. Without blood. Without pride.
Royal crossed the marble slowly. Boots clicking like clockwork. He stopped just beside me. Close enough that if I lifted my head—which I didn’t—I would’ve seen the shape of his smile. Lazy. Sharp. He crouched again. A fingertip tracingthe hem of my dress where it pooled at my knees. “Pretty little ghost,” he murmured.
I didn’t react. Because ghosts didn’t flinch. Ghosts didn’t run. They stayed. Silent. Lingering.
Property of the dead who refused to let go.
“Do you even remember how it felt to stand?” Royal asked.
I didn’t answer. Because Wolfe hadn’t given me permission. Because Wolfe hadn’t looked at me yet. Because standing wasn’t survival anymore. It was treason.
Royal laughed under his breath. Soft. Cruel. Then he rose. Stepped back into the ruins of the dynasty they were still pretending could be salvaged.
Loyal stayed near the exit. Hands still jammed in his pockets. Shoulders hunched like he could disappear into the wall if he tried hard enough. He looked at me once. Just once. And I saw it. The crack. The shudder. The hunger. The guilt.The devastation.
But he said nothing. Because he knew better. Because reaching for me now wouldn’t save me. It would break him. And no one here was willing to bleed for anyone else anymore. Not after tonight. Not after Selene made sure the Lawlor name was scrawled across the city in blood and ashes.
Wolfe moved last. He crossed the room with the steady, unhurried pace of a man who had already decided who would live and who would be buried.
He stopped in front of me.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
When he finally turned—not toward me, but toward the wreckage of the night—I stood.
Slow.
Breathless.
Head still bowed.
Hands at my sides.
I followed Wolfe across the marble. Barefoot. Silent. Not because he told me to. Not because I was strong enough to choose. Because there was nothing else left to be.
Not loyalty. Not love. Only leash. Only silence.
Only him.
The night swallowed us whole. The city glittered beyond the car windows. Sharp lights. Sharp lies. I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. The collar dug harder into my throat now. Not from the chain. From the silence. Wolfe slid into the backseat first. Royal followed. A lazy sprawl of arrogance and cruelty.
Loyal last. Still silent. Still bleeding into the dark fabric of his suit. I climbed in after them. No command needed. I knew my place now. Not the seat beside them. The floor.
No one spoke. The engine hummed. The world outside blurred. But inside the car—there was only breath. Only the pulse of the leash sinking deeper into my skin. Only the sound of survival stitching itself smaller inside my chest.
Royal broke the silence first. Of course he did. “Well,” he drawled, his voice low and rich and dangerous, “aren’t we all just perfect little ruins tonight.”
No one answered.
