Inside is a mask that matches my gown—silver filigree on midnight blue silk, delicate and ornate, covering the upper half of my face with cutouts for my eyes. It’s beautiful and impractical and exactly the kind of thing Dominic would have loved—all performance, all spectacle, all illusion.
The masquerade gala. Because of course it has to be a masquerade. Can’t just have a normal charity event where everyone writes checks and goes home. No, we need costumes and mystery and the pretense of anonymity while everyone knows exactly who everyone else is anyway.
I take the mask, holding it up to my face. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself—some stranger in expensive fabric and silver thread, playing dress-up in a world I never wanted to be part of.
“Remember the last masquerade gala?” Sienna asks suddenly, a smile playing at her lips. “The one where I met Charles?”
My mother laughs—actually laughs, the sound surprising and genuine. “Oh God, that disaster. When was that? Ten years ago?”
“Fifteen,” Sienna corrects. “My family dragged me there thinking I’d meet some ‘suitable young man’ to marry.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Instead, I met Charles Carter doing the most ridiculous peacocking display I’d ever witnessed.”
Despite myself, I smile. I remember that night. I was nineteen, freshly returned from my first year of college, still naive enough to think I could escape this life if I just tried hard enough. Still naive enough to think that when Dominic said he was“introducing me to the organization,” he meant as a person with value beyond my marriageability.
I’d learned differently that night. Learned that to men like my father, women existed to be wed, bred, traded off for alliances and territory. That my education, my intelligence, my wants—none of it mattered compared to my potential as a bargaining chip.
“He wore that absurd burgundy suit,” Sienna continues, her voice warm with affection despite the words. “And he kept positioning himself so the light would catch his profile just right. Like he was posing for invisible cameras.”
“He was trying to impress you,” Mom says gently.
“He was trying to impress everyone,” Sienna corrects. “But yes, mostly me. And I thought he was the most ridiculous man I’d ever met.” She pauses. “Then he opened his mouth and said something actually intelligent about reforming the justice system, and I realized the peacocking was all performance. That underneath it was someone who actually gave a shit about things beyond money and power.”
I remember that night differently.
I remember Jace in a black tux that fit him like sin, his blue eyes tracking every man who came near me, his hand constantly at the small of my back even though we were supposed to be nothing more than family friends. I remember Cal in navy blue, charming and devastating, making three different women blush before he pulled me onto the dance floor and held me too close while telling me I looked beautiful. I remember Silas arriving late, blood on his collar that he hadn’t quite managed to hide,violence still riding his shoulders like a second skin as he moved through the crowd to find me.
I remember the three of them forming a wall around me when some business associate of Dominic’s got too handsy, suggesting to my father that I’d make an excellent wife for his son. Remember Cal’s smooth redirection, Jace’s cold stare, Silas’s hand dropping to his knife in a way that was impossible to miss. Remember feeling suffocated and protected and wanted all at once.
They’d been working with Charles for years by then—came up through the ranks together, the four of them an inseparable unit that Dominic both valued and resented. The golden boy heir and his three enforcers, handling the dirty work, building the empire while Dominic took credit.
“Parker went through three dress fittings for that gala,” Evelyn says, pulling me back to the present. “Changed her mind twice about the color.”
“We were nineteen,” I defend. “I was allowed to be indecisive. Nineteen was peak peacocking for Charles, too.”
“You were terrified,” my mother corrects gently. “Dominic had just announced you’d be formally introduced to the organization’s leadership. You knew what that meant—that you were being positioned as marriage material, that men would start seeing you as a potential alliance opportunity rather than just Charles’s little sister.”
The words land heavier than they should. Because that’s exactly what’s happening now, isn’t it? Fifteen years later and I’m right back in the same position—being dressed up and paradedaround, my value measured in alliances and optics rather than the actual work I’m doing as Charles’s strategist.
“So, Ryan Matthews,” Mom says, her tone carefully casual in that way mothers have when they’re fishing for information. “Charles speaks very highly of him. Says he’s been invaluable during the transition.”
I focus on my reflection, on the way the silver thread catches the light. “He’s competent. Professional.”
“And handsome,” my mother adds. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”
“Mom—”
“I’m just saying, it’s nice to see you with someone age-appropriate. Someone stable, from a good family.” She takes a sip of her champagne. “Someone who could be a real partner, not just?—”
“Not just what?” I turn to face her, careful not to disturb Madame Laurent’s pinning. “Not just someone I actually want?”
Her expression softens. “I want you to be happy, sweetheart. And I know the past six years have been... difficult. Raising the boys alone, building a life separate from all this. But you’re home now. And Ryan seems like he could be good for you.”
“I have no interest in Ryan Matthews,” I say flatly. “Not as anything beyond a colleague.”
The words come out sharper than intended, and the room goes quiet. Even Madame Laurent pauses in her work.
“That’s a shame,” Aria says from her position by the window, her voice carrying just enough edge to cut. “Because according to Ryan, you two have quite the history.”
I turn to look at her, my stomach dropping. “Excuse me?”
