Eric perks up like a hound catching scent, while Edmund sinks deeper into his notes, pretending his spine isn’t curling with secondhand discomfort.
“I must admit,” Kian continues, “I’m shocked Viv hasn’t devoured your little pet by now. Then again, she’s probably too busy with her east wing renovation. All those fabric samples, the endless tea parties . . .” His grin turns feral. “How very convenient.”
“Enough.” Alexander’s voice cuts clean, but Kian winks at me, reveling in the heat rising under my skin.
“What?” he shrugs. “Merely expressing concern for our darling Luna’s work-life balance. Though I do wonder how long this one will last.”
“If there are no further questions,” Alexander waves his hand, “we’re adjourned.”
Edmund all but launches himself from his chair. “Yes, well . . . highly informative. Notes by morning.”
“Fascinating developments,” Eric adds smoothly, eyes sweeping over me one last time before he slinks out, no doubt already rehearsing how he’ll retell this moment to his wife over drinks.
I stare at my tablet, jaw clenched so tight it might crack.
“Luna,” Alexander says quietly, hand tightening around mine. “We’ll go over the campaign revisions later. For now, return to the lab. There’s something Kian and I need to discuss.”
Dismissed. Just like that. An intern shuffled out of a boardroom, never mind thatImade the breakthrough. ThatI’mthe face of this entire operation. That none of this exists without me. But I don’t flinch or show it. I gather my things and rise, head high. Let Kian enjoy his performance. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattle. The door seals behind me with a whisper.
But I don’t leave. I step closer, pressing my ear against the cold panel. Their voices filter through, muffled but intense.
“Was that necessary, Kian?” Alexander. Controlled fury. “The comments about Luna were uncalled for.”
“Getting soft in your old age?” A dry chuckle.
A breath—irritated, resigned. “Out with it. What do you really want?”
“We don’t need Luna,” Kian says, all smugness peeled back. “I’ve got it handled.”
“No. Aria’s volatile. Just like her mother. You remember what Elyra did when backed into a corner.”
A pause. Then a grunt of acknowledgment.
“This is easier,” Alexander presses. “People adored the Ellis name. They will love Luna. A face of a campaign is important, and she can really speed things up. Unlike Aria, if you ever get her to cooperate.”
“Fine,” Kian mutters. “Keep your pretty lab rat. But I actually need your help with something else. Dom has no grip on Aria. He needs motivation to pull her leash more.”
I go still, my fingernails biting into my palms. That’s what I’ve always said, isn’t it? That Dom’s a tamer version of Kian in a prettier suit. And now here it is. Confirmation, straight from the monster’s mouth.
Aria is being manipulated. Managed. No wonder she’s shut me out and hasn’t said a word.
I don’t wait to hear more. I turn and stalk back down the hall, seething at my sister’s stupidity. How can someone so brilliant be so blind?
Istand half-naked inwhat must be the hundredth wedding gown, while Madam Laurent circles me. Her fingers dance with pins that seem magnetically drawn to my flesh. Each new “adjustment” brings fresh waves of what she calls “necessary discomfort” and what I call “premeditated assault.”
The dress itself is a monstrosity that makes me resemble a homicidal cream puff freshly mauled by a lace factory. The first week, I’d ignored Octavia’s “suggestions” regarding fittings and ceremonial duties. That strategy lasted until Kian appeared in my apartment, all elegant menace and fake concern.
“My dear future daughter,” he’d purred, draping himself across my favorite chair as though it had been made for him. “This rebellious streak, while endlessly charming, is becoming exhausting. Perhaps we should revisit the terms of our little arrangement?” His smile promised blood and broken bones, but his next words were surprisingly generous. “I’ll even allow you and Dominic to exchange notes, supervised, of course. A gesture of goodwill, provided you start attending to your duties with more enthusiasm.”
And so here I am, being impaled by pins and shackled to Octavia’s tyrannical schedule. Though if Kian thought tulle and timelines would render me obedient, he’s clearly underestimated my appetitefor petty defiance. I’ve turned needling Octavia into an art form, every jab meticulously crafted to stay just within the bounds of propriety while ensuring maximum irritation.
“The bodice needs to be tighter,” Octavia announces without lifting her eyes from her AetherLink. She’s been glued to it for twenty minutes, yet still manages to critique every breath I take. “A Blackwood bride must project both power and restraint.”
“If it gets any tighter, you’ll be planning a funeral instead of a wedding,” I mutter, earning a sharp jab from Madam Laurent’s latest pin. “Ow! That was deliberate.”
“All artistry demands sacrifice, child,” she purrs, already reaching for another glinting implement of torment.
“We could still go with the black and crimson version,” Margaux drawls from her indolent sprawl across a nearby chaise. “Besides, nothing says ‘welcome to the family business’ quite like draping yourself in the colors of power and slaughter.” She raises her champagne flute with a slow, ironic flourish. “Though perhaps that’s the point. White is the traditional shade because it shows the blood so beautifully when the vows turn violent.”
