“I thought you’d appreciate it,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
She looks up at me, and in her eyes, I see something new. Not fear, not defiance, not even the quiet surrender of this morning. It’s a flicker of genuine, unguarded gratitude. It’s a look that says,You see me.
And I do. I see the brilliant, passionate student who finds beauty in the intricate machinery of the human body. I see the woman who is more at home in a silent library than at any loud party. I see all the pieces of her, the light and the dark, and I want all of them.
We spend an hour there, lost in the quiet world of books. She shows me a first edition of a seminal immunology text, explaining its significance with a passion that is intoxicating. I, in turn, find a rare treatise on the chemical composition of historical pigments, a personal interest of mine. For a few peaceful moments, we are not captor and captive. We are two minds, meeting on a plane of mutual intellectual respect. It is a more profound intimacy than any physical act we have shared.
When we get back to the penthouse, the sun is setting, painting the city in fiery strokes of orange and gold. She is quiet, but it’s a comfortable, contemplative silence.
“Thank you,” she says, her back to me as she stares out the window. “For tonight.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. I walk up behind her, my arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. Her body, which would have once stiffened at my touch, now melts against mine. She belongs here.
“The dress arrived,” I murmur against her ear, my lips brushing the soft skin behind her earlobe. “It’s in the bedroom. I want you to try it on.”
She turns in my arms, her eyes searching mine. I see a flicker of apprehension, the performance anxiety of the coming ball. But beneath it, there is a current of excitement. A curiosity to see the woman I see when I look at her.
She walks into the bedroom and I follow, my heart pounding a slow, heavy rhythm of anticipation. The dress is laid out on the bed, a shimmering, liquid pool of emerald silk. It is a masterpiece. A weapon.
She undresses with a newfound lack of self-consciousness, her body a pale, lovely silhouette in the dimming light. She steps into the dress and I move behind her, my fingers finding the delicate, hidden zipper. It glides up her back with a soft, final click as it settles into place, sealing her into her new skin.
She turns to face the full-length mirror, and the breath catches in my throat.
She is magnificent. Transcendent.
The emerald silk clings to her every curve, the color a perfect, fiery complement to her dark hair and the storm in her green eyes. The cut is audacious, a testament to the perfect body I have explored so intimately. The low back plunges to the very base of her spine, and a thigh-high slit offers a tantalizing promise of the long, elegant legs beneath. She looks like a goddess of war; beautiful, terrible, and utterly unconquerable.
She stares at her reflection, her own eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a dawning, potent understanding. She is seeing herself through my eyes. She is seeing the power she holds.
I step behind her, my hands settling on her hips, my reflection a dark, possessive shadow flanking her radiant form. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“Perfect,” I whisper, my voice rough with an emotion so fierce it threatens to choke me. “You are absolutely perfect.”
She leans back against me, her body a pliant, willing weight in my arms. It is a silent, complete surrender.
The ball is not a test. It is her coronation, and I will be the one to place the crown on her head.
Thirty Eight
West
The silence in the penthouse is a held breath. It’s the quiet of anticipation, thick and electric, the air humming with the ghost of her perfume and the weight of the night to come. I stand before the full-length mirror in my study, adjusting the onyx cuffs of my tuxedo. The suit is bespoke, a Tom Ford black as a void, tailored so precisely it feels less like clothing and more like a second skin. It’s the uniform of a Monroe, the armor I have been forced to wear my entire life. Tonight, it’s a costume fora final performance. The role of “West Monroe, Heir Apparent” ends tonight.
My plan has been solidifying for weeks, a cold, hard diamond of intent forming in my gut. This night is not about appeasing my uncle, it’s about ending him. Not his life, but his control. I will make my public declaration with Kinsley on my arm, and then I will formally declare for the NHL draft. I will walk away from the gilded cage of Monroe Industries forever. He can keep his empire. I am taking my freedom.
On my polished mahogany desk, beside a crystal glass of Macallan 25, sits a small, iconic red box with gold trim. A Cartier box. I picked it up last week, the purchase as calm and deliberate as a chess move planned ten steps in advance. I open the lid. Nestled in the black velvet is a platinum locket. It’s not a romantic, heart-shaped trinket. It’s a perfect, modern square—heavy, cold, and severe. A beautiful little cage.
With a thumbnail, I open the locket’s clasp. The polished platinum inside is marred by a laser-fine inscription, the words brutal in their simplicity, a raw, unfiltered declaration of the truth that now governs my world.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
No one can tell me
I can’t have you.
It’s childish, it’s crude. It’s the primal, possessive scrawl of a king claiming his territory, now etched forever into a piece of priceless metal. A brand. I snap the locket shut and place it back in its velvet bed, closing the lid on my promise.
