He fit an ivory lace mask over her eyes and tied it at the back of her head. Then he slid a simple black one over his face—an unnecessary touch, since his practiced disguise of unshakable control was already in place.
The grand staircase delivered them into a world remade by ruin.
Daisy’s fingers tightened on Jack’s arm as the ballroom unfurled below. The same Gothic cathedral that hours ago dripped with elegance, and the cloying musk of wealth, now resembled a field hospital after a siege. Chandeliers blazed overhead, indifferent to the carnage below.
Heat crept up Daisy’s neck as guilt surged inside of her. Her hair and skin still smelled of Jack’s soap and shampoo. Her lace dress whispered against her thighs with each step, pristine and absurdly white, while below, women stood in shredded gowns, bare feet blackened with forest mud, hair snarled with twigs and rain and the residue of hours spent running for their lives.
The contrast was obscene.
One woman cradled a bloated ankle, her satin dress cleaved from hip to hem, the fabric so filthy its original color was indecipherable. Another slumped against a column with mascara carved into dark tributaries down her cheeks.
A battered sea of wreckage.
Laughter, wild and brittle, ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling, and Daisy frowned, wondering how any one of them could laugh in such a battered state. Bruises mottled bare arms in watercolor shades of violet and ochre. Scratches crosshatched exposed shoulders like tally marks. Blisters wept from their dirty feet—rubbed raw.
But as they gathered, lurching in from the veranda they fled nearly twelve hours ago, the dead look in their eyes transformed to something else entirely. Their clothing, hair, and makeup were destroyed, but their pride seemed galvanized.
They gathered along the wall where they first debuted, and lingered in weary triumph.
Daisy’s stomach clenched with an emotion she couldn’t untangle. Admiration braided with shame. Awe knotted into guilt. Those tributes clawed through a nightmare she somehow escaped.
Their suffering was visible. Validated. Written on their bodies in mud and blood where hers had been washed away in a billionaire’s shower.
What price had they paid for the prize that awaited them? It would take years to calculate. And some may never fully review the bill.
The only thing Daisy knew for sure was that every single one of them had paid more than her.
Jack’s hand found the small of her back, steadying, possessive. The warmth of his palm sent a treacherous shiver through her.
“Ready?” he glanced at her, so shockingly unnerved by the sight before them.
Didn’t he see the contrast?
She cheated. She found shelter away from danger and hid like a coward while the rest of them paid in sacrifice.
She descended the stairs in her soft satin flats while they nursed blisters on their battered feet. Heat rushed to her cheeks as they descended the sprawling staircase like royalty, the weight of their stares pegging her like biblical stones.
She stiffened against Jack’s gentle lead. How easy it would be to lean into that touch, to let herself believe the pressure of his fingers meant permanence. But standing there with him, looking over all the women she should have stood beside, only made her feel incredibly alone.
He prodded her along, whispering something she couldn’t hear over the roar of voices colliding below. Hunters milled among the wreckage in various states of elegant collapse. Tuxedo jackets discarded. Shirttails wrenched free and hung loose over muddied trousers. Bow ties dangling like surrendered flags from unbuttoned collars.
One man she vaguely recognized from the banquet perched on the fountain’s edge with his sleeves shoved to his elbows, cufflinks gone, sharing a cigarette with a tribute whose gown clung to her frame by one remaining strap and sheer defiance. Smoke curled between them in a lazy ribbon as they chatted like equals.
Some still wore masks, but most were disguised by whatever mud and makeup smeared their faces. Each one of them wore the triumphant flush of a deeply satisfied victor, blending like teammates after a violent scrimmage, sipping champagne, recalling moments of triumph and conquest, all while nursing their battle scars and injuries.
Their champagne-soaked carnage was stripped of any sense of opposition. Leaving only a radiating sense of accomplishment and pride.
Jack had orchestrated all of this. His universe was vast and populated with players so infinitely apart from what she was, she couldn’t imagine ever fully fitting into such a world. A peasant among giants.
Yes, her financial situation would change. But at her core, she would always be who she was—just a poor girl from Dagenham.
She swallowed against the stone lodged in her throat and forced her gaze forward.
The sour tang of exhaustion and sweat threaded the air under the cloying sweetness of the flower that had only begun to open. Had it really only been twelve hours? It felt like a lifetime ago when she last descended these stairs.
Silver platters of ransacked canapés wilted beside overturned champagne flutes. A woman’s singular, crimson shoe lay abandoned near the orchestra’s empty chairs.
Daisy’s clean skin prickled as she moved through the debris of their shared ordeal, unable to escape the horrible sense that she was an impostor.
