"BEAUTIFUL!" Chet released her, spinning toward us, his eyes manic with creative fervor. "Warlord! Victoria! You two are MAGICAL! The tension! The passion! The possessive violence!"
He clutched his chest dramatically. "We are not just making TV," he announced to the room at large. "We are making history!"
I looked at Egon.
He looked at me.
Behind Chet's glittering, manic excitement, behind the chaos of the ballroom and the residual adrenaline of the attack, I saw the truth in his gaze. Chet knew the truth of what was in my heart.
Egon was mine. I was keeping him. And Derek, Jessica and anyone else who had a problem with it could kiss my ass.
Tori, Three Hours Later
* * *
The hallway outside the production offices was too quiet.
Not the normal quiet of a late night on set—the muffled hum of furnace fans, distant laughter from the crew, music leaking through ballroom doors. This silence felt heavier, like the building itself was holding its breath.
I stood beside the closed production door, my ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. Egon was in another part of the resort being interviewed by the police. A human woman named Catherine Egara has shown up with a giant Warlord in tow. His name was Bahre and he’d taken one look at Egon, then me, and not left Egon’s side.
Me? I had the Prillon warriors on me like shadows. Which was fine because it turned out they wanted to eavesdrop through this damn door just as badly as I did. Of course, Chet was in there. Their mate. He didn’t sound like the dramatic showman at the moment. He sounded like a really pissed off business executive. Stern. So serious. This was the guy who’d handed me millions of dollars like it was candy.
Inside the room, voices rose and fell in tense bursts. Chet’s laugh cut through the noise—sharp and unmistakable, like someone shaking sequins in a metal bowl. Normally it meant chaos and theatrics.
Tonight, it sounded strained.
Other voices followed. Lower. Angry.
“…security breach?—”
“…how the hell did he get through checkpoint two?”
“…trespassing charges?—”
“…civilian infiltration on a closed set…”
My stomach tightened.
Derek.
The word pulsed through my thoughts like a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing.
Ever since the incident at the Fairy Tale Ball, the question had been gnawing at me. How had he gotten inside? The show had security everywhere—guards, locked entrances, production staff watching every hallway.
Someone had helped him.
And the look I’d seen across the ballroom—Jessica’s cool, calculating glance toward Derek as they dragged him out of the room—had been impossible to ignore.
She knew he was here. They’d planned it. I just didn’t have proof yet.
The office door flew open.
I jerked back so fast I nearly lost my balance.
Chet Bosworth burst into the hallway like a glitter cannon had gone off behind him. His gold-spiked hair looked even more chaotic than usual, strands dusted with shimmering powder that drifted through the air every time he moved. He was rubbing the Prillon mating collar that circled his throat like it was causing him pain.
“Tori!” His grin flashed bright and theatrical. “Just the princess I was hoping to see!”
