I pull out my phone and check the security feed one more time, watching Persia move through the penthouse with a restlessness that mirrors my own. She has dressed since our video call, wearing a flowing skirt and one of those thin blouses that make her look like something out of a summer dream, and the sight of her makes my chest ache with a longing I do not have words for.
I want to show her that I am not like her father. Not like Magnus. I want to prove that she is more than a contract and a signature and a means to an end.
And so I type out a message that I hope will be the first step toward becoming the man she deserves.
On my way to pick you up. Put on the red dress and those diamond earrings. We have a date in New Orleans.
Fourteen
Persia
The private jet touches down in New Orleans just as the sun begins its lazy descent toward the bayou, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet that remind me of bruises healing in reverse.
Three hours in the air with Rafael Milano, and I still cannot decide if I am his wife, his prisoner, or something in between that does not have a name yet. He spent most of the flight on phone calls, speaking in low tones about shipments and territories and names I did not recognize, while I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched the clouds drift past like cotton candy dissolving in water.
Now we are in a black SUV with tinted windows so dark the outside world looks like a film noir, winding through streets that grow progressively less civilized until the city disappears entirely and Spanish moss hangs from ancient oaks like the ghosts of old secrets refusing to let go.
"Where exactly are we going?" I finally ask, breaking the silence that has stretched between us since we landed.
Rafael's hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing circles against the red silk of the dress he asked me to wear. "Somewhere I think you will find interesting."
The cryptic non-answer should irritate me, but I am too busy watching the landscape transform from suburban sprawl to something wilder, older, thick with the kind of humidity that makes your clothes cling and your hair curl and your skin feel like it is wrapped in warm, wet velvet.
We turn down a private road that seems to materialize from nowhere, the trees pressing so close on either side that their branches scrape against the roof of the SUV like fingers trying to find purchase. And then the trees fall away and I see it rising from the marshland like something out of a fever dream.
The Gilded Key Society.
The name is carved into an elegant sign at the entrance.
It is a massive antebellum mansion that has been transformed into something far more decadent than its original architects ever intended, all white columns and wraparound porches and windows that glow with warm golden light against the deepening dusk. Gardens stretch in every direction, manicured hedges forming intricate patterns that probably spell out secrets visible only from above, and the air smells of jasmine and something darker, something that makes my pulse quicken in ways I do not fully understand.
"Rafael." I breathe his name like a question, and he smiles in a way that tells me he knows exactly the effect this place is having on me.
"Welcome to one of my favorite places in the world, little dove."
Inside, the opulence is almost suffocating in its intensity. Marble floors stretch beneath towering ceilings painted in gold leaf and shadowed murals depicting scenes that make heat flood my cheeks and pool low in my belly. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across velvet seating in deep jewel tones, and everywhere I look there are beautiful people in various states of undress, their bodies draped in silk and glittering jewelry and not much else.
The air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey and something I can only describe as temptation itself.
I feel Rafael's gaze on me as I take it all in, watching me watch the couples disappearing into shadowed alcoves and the masked figures moving through the grand hall like royalty indulging in forbidden pleasures. His attention is a physical weight against my skin, possessive and patient, and I wonder if he is waiting to see how I will react to this world he inhabits so comfortably.
"Mr. Milano." A voice like honey and magnolias draws my attention to a petite blonde approaching us with a warm smile that reaches her eyes in a way that feels genuine rather than performative. "We weren't expecting you this evening, but it's always a pleasure."
"Magnolia." Rafael inclines his head in greeting. "I hope we are not intruding."
"Never." Her gaze slides to me with open curiosity and something that looks like immediate kinship. "And who is this vision in red?"
"My wife," Rafael says, and the possessiveness in his voice sends a complicated shiver down my spine. "Persia Milano."
My heart stutters in my chest at the sound of my name combined with his. It sounds foreign on his tongue, foreign and right and terrifying all at once.
Magnolia's smile widens as she takes my hands in hers, and the warmth of her touch is so unexpected that I find myself squeezing back instinctively. "Welcome to the Gilded Key Society, Persia. If you ever find yourself in need of a position, I think you would be perfect here. We could use someone with your presence."
"She will not need one," Rafael cuts in, his hand settling at the small of my back with unmistakable ownership. "She has me."
Something sparks in my chest, irritation and affection tangled together in ways I cannot separate. "I can speak for myself," I say, the words sharper than I intend.
But instead of being offended, I find myself pulling Magnolia into an embrace that surprises us both. There is something about her, a kindness that radiates from her very core, that makes me feel instantly connected in a way I cannot explain. She feels like safety in human form, and I have had so little of that in my life that I want to hold onto it even for just a moment.
