Announcement.
The words ring out like a gavel strike.
Across the room, I see Talia flinch. Her hand comes up, fingers pressing to her throat like she’s checking for a pulse—or choking.
She didn't know.
Why would she? We never talked about it. We talked about silence and noise and safety. I never told her I was sold before I was born.
“Of course,” Beatrice says immediately. She turns to me. “Don’t scowl. It wrinkles.”
I don’t move.
“Come on,” she murmurs under her breath, stepping closer, sliding a hand up the back of my neck as if we’re something intimate. “Your father is watching. This is the soft launch, Declan. Do not ruin it.”
He is watching. I can feel him. Allistair Reid, across the room by the high-top tables, giving me that cool, measuring look. The one that weighs my usefulness against his bottom line.
I’m pinned. Again.
My molars grind. I force myself to angle toward the camera, every muscle tight with resistance.
Flash. White.
The photographer lowers the camera. “One more? Closer this time. Look like you’re celebrating.”
Beatrice doesn’t wait for my answer.
She rises on her toes, turns my face with the hand on my neck, and kisses me.
Full on the mouth.
Her lips are soft and cold and taste like a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne. There’s nothing in it but possession. Her fingers dig into my jaw, holding me there for the camera, for the board, for my father, for whoever is watching.
From the outside, it probably looks perfect.
From the inside, I feel nothing but shock and a white, roaring fury.
My body goes rigid. I don't kiss back. I don’t lean in. I don’t move. I let it happen because if I jerk away in the middle of this room, I don’t just embarrass myself. I give my father ammunition. I give him a reason to call me ungrateful, unstable, out of control.
Flash.
The moment freezes. Her mouth on mine. Her hand on my face. My eyes open—because I can’t make myself close them for this—and in that split second, over her shoulder, I see Talia.
She’s still by the terrace doors. Still in that blue dress. Still beside her father.
Her expression is empty.
Not shocked. Not hurt. Not outraged. Just… still. Like she’s turned whatever she’s feeling into ice and slammed it down under her ribs before it can reach the surface.
Her gaze flicks once from Beatrice’s hand on my face to my eyes.
Then she looks away.
She says something short to Addison, then turns and walks out through the terrace doors into the night.
Gone.
Beatrice pulls back, satisfied. A perfect, practiced smile curves her mouth. “See?” she murmurs. “Not so hard.”
