He glances at me, and something soft flickers in his eyes—like I’m the only thing he sees. “As long as you’re by my side, I’m perfect.”
The marble floorsgleam underfoot as we step through the grand entrance of the Goldmoor Club. The chandeliers overhead drip crystal like icicles, the room filled to capacity with money and ego. Every guest here is dressed to kill—or at least to conceal a dagger behind a smile. And I’m already scanning every corner like it’s a chessboard.
Zara’s hand slips into mine, and I glance down to see her calm—outwardly. But I feel the tension in her fingers. She’s coiled tight beneath that maroon silk like she’s waiting for impact. And yet, when she meets a passing gaze, her smile is soft and queenly. Regal. Controlled.
She’s handling it like a goddamn empress.
Lars peels off for a second to greet one of our internal team members posted near the ballroom entrance. I spot Marcus near the side wall. He blends well—dark tux, earpiece discreet. He clocks me and comes our way.
“Main floor is secure,” Marcus says under his breath, keeping his eyes on the room. “We’ve got seven posted inside, fourteen roaming the perimeter. Upstairs is cleared. No press beyond the ropes.”
I nod once. “Let me know the second anything changes. And remember, Lachlan doesn’t leave this building unless it’s in our custody.”
Marcus fades back into the crowd without another word.
Zara and I find our table in the center-right quadrant of the ballroom—close enough to the stage, but positioned for sightlines in every direction. Violette is already there, swirling her water like it’s gin. Lars returns a minute later and lowers into his seat beside her, flashing me a quick look that says we’re ready.
A server arrives with a silver tray and sets down flutes of champagne. I grab one, slide it in front of Zara without thinking. It’s habit. Our first night together, I did the same.
But she blinks, falters for half a breath. Then gently nudges the glass back toward me.
“Only water tonight, please,” she says with a soft smile.
I freeze. It’s nothing. Barely a sentence. But my head tilts, my brow lifts. She clocks the change in my expression almost immediately.
“I just want a clear head,” she adds quickly. “Too much going on. I want to be sharp.”
I hold her gaze for a second longer. There’s something behind it. But she’s already turning to say something to Violette, and the moment slips by.
I take a sip of the champagne she refused, eyes tracking the entrance. That’s when Lachlan Kavanagh walks in.
Two men walk beside him—tailored suits, dead eyes, hands twitching too close to where their holsters are tucked. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back like a politician clinging to his last campaign, and that signature smirk is already in place. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s all pretense. An aging man trying to flex in a room that no longer bends for him.
Zara goes still beside me. Not afraid—controlled. Spine straight. Shoulders squared. Her chin tilts just enough to say she sees him for exactly what he is—a relic.
I cover her hand under the table, she lets my fingers slide over hers.
Kavanagh moves through the crowd like the snake he is—slithering, smiling, exchanging handshakes with men whoused to follow him and now just tolerate him. He takes his time, dragging out every step toward us like it’s still his stage.
By the time he stops in front of our table, I’m already standing. Lars rises beside me like a shadow. Violette doesn’t bother moving, just lifts her glass and levels him with a look colder than any bullet.
“Kavanagh,” I say, voice flat.
“Marchetti.” His handshake is all theater. Limp, practiced, insincere. “Stunning venue. Very…modern of you.”
Then his eyes land on Zara. And that’s when the real venom shows.
“You look well, my dear,” he says, his smile curling like spoiled cream. “Marriage has made you softer. I wasn’t sure that was possible.”
Zara says nothing. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
He steps closer. Too close. Drops his voice just enough that only I catch it.
“Of course, softness never lasts. Girls like her—untamed whores—get bored fast. It’s in their nature. They outgrow their cages.”
It takes everything I have not to put him on the fucking floor.
My hands flex, jaw locked, vision tunneling. I don’t care that we’re in public. That there are cameras. That there are witnesses. I want his blood on my cuffs. But this isn’t the moment.
