“I love it,” I say quietly. “Exactly perfect.”
My mother still looks uncertain. “It’s very monochromatic. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something warmer?”
“This is perfect,” I say firmly, meeting Sienna’s eyes in the mirror.
Madame Laurent claps her hands. “Excellent! Then let us begin.”
The assistants remove the midnight blue gown and bring out the storm-grey fabric. Madame Laurent drapes it around me, pinning and adjusting. The fabric moves like liquid shadow, clinging before flowing into a skirt that shifts with every movement. Steel-blue accents swirl through the bodice like Damascus steel. Amber beads catch the light along the neckline.
They help me into the steel-blue heels—sharp and dangerous, the exact shade of Jace’s eyes when he’s calculating threat levels.
The amber necklace comes next—three strands of delicate gold holding a cluster of stones at my throat, warm as Cal’s gaze. Matching earrings. A slim bracelet circling my wrist.
Finally, Madame Laurent presents the mask. Storm-grey silk with steel-blue metalwork swirling across the surface, amber crystals set like raindrops catching streetlight.
I hold it up to my face. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself—storm-grey gown flowing like clouds, steel-blue threading through like lightning, amber catching light like sun through rain. The transformation is complete.
“Mon dieu,” Madame Laurent breathes. “You are a tempest,mademoiselle.”
My mother has gone quiet, staring at me with something like wariness. Aria’s champagne glass pauses halfway to her lips. But Sienna is smiling like she’s just won a war.
“When can you have it ready?” I ask.
“Saturday morning. I’ll have it delivered personally.”
The fitting continues—adjustments and measurements, my mother making suggestions about hair and makeup with lessenthusiasm than before. Aria excuses herself for her own fitting, her expression carefully neutral.
And through it all, I stand wrapped in storm grey and steel blue and amber, planning.
Ryan Matthews lied to my brother. Told Charles we had history, that he’d been helping me in California. And Charles passed that lie to Cal, who’s probably been tearing himself apart wondering if one of my children belongs to another man.
The thought makes me furious. Makes me want to storm into their house and demand answers. But I can’t do that without revealing everything.
So instead, I’ll wear their colors to a gala where I’m supposed to smile on Ryan Matthews’s arm. I’ll send a message they can’t miss.
“All finished,” Madame Laurent declares.
The assistants help me out of the gown. I slip back into my jeans and sweater, but I can still feel it—the weight of storm-grey fabric, the sharp edge of steel-blue accents, the warmth of amber stones.
Their colors, wrapped around me.
When I walk into that ballroom Saturday night, every person who matters will know exactly who I belong to.
Even if they’re too stupid to trust me right now.
35
JACE
The rhythm of sparring is familiar—Cal’s footwork, his tells, the way he drops his left shoulder half a second before he commits to a strike. We’ve been doing this for twenty years, moving through the patterns like a conversation we’ve had so many times the words don’t matter anymore.
I catch his wrist, redirect, use his momentum to take him to the mat. He rolls, comes up fast, grinning despite the sweat dripping down his face.
“Getting slow,” I tell him.
“Fuck you,” he says, breathing hard. “You’re just?—”
The gym door slams open.
