Violet
The office is empty by the time I finish organizing the last of the alliance contracts. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright for this late at night. My watch reads 9:47 p.m.
Perfect.
I’ve been timing it carefully all week. Dinner at the house ends around eight. By nine-thirty, my mother and Alaric have usually retired to their private wing or the study. By ten, the halls are quiet enough that I can slip in unnoticed, grab something from the kitchen if I’m lucky, and disappear to my room.
I grab my bag and head for the elevator, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The building feels different this late. Hollow, almost peaceful. No Rachel watching me with those calculating eyes. No whispers following me down the hallways. Just silence.
The parking garage is nearly empty. My rental car sits where I left it this morning, under a flickering light that makes shadows dance across the concrete. I unlock it and slide behind the wheel, tossing my bag onto the passenger seat.
My stomach growls. I ignore it.
Breakfast at my desk, lunch if I remember, dinner skipped entirely.It’s easier this way. Easier than sitting at that massive dining table with Alaric making small talk and my mother watching me with her sharp, assessing eyes.
Easier than risking another encounter with Darius.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel at the thought of him.
Since the incident in the corridor, I’ve been a mess. I can still feel his hands on my wrists, still smell the cedar and smoke that always clings to him, still remember the way his eyes flashed gold when I tried to fight back.
“Tell Julian not to touch you again.”
Heat pools low in my stomach at the memory, unwelcome and confusing. I shove it away and start the car.
The drive takes twenty minutes at this hour. Less traffic. Fewer people to navigate around. The exhaustion sitting heavy in my bones makes even the thought of stopping at a store feel insurmountable.
The guards at the gate wave me through without comment. They’ve learned not to question my late arrivals.
I park in the circular driveway and gather my things, moving slowly. My body feels disconnected. The medication I took this morning is wearing off, leaving that familiar queasy feeling in its wake.
The front door is unlocked. I slip off my heels as soon as I’m inside, not wanting to make noise on the marble floor of the foyer. The house is dark except for a soft glow coming from the living room. Probably James, making his final rounds before bed.
I move toward the stairs, ready to retreat to my room and collapse.
A lamp clicks on. I freeze.
My mother is sitting in one of the high-backed chairs facing the staircase, still dressed from dinner in a sleek, black dress and pearls around her neck. Her hands rest on the armrests, fingers drumming a slow rhythm. Waiting.
My stomach drops.
“Violet.” Her voice is cool. Measured. “Come here.”
I don’t move. “I’m tired. I need to—”
“Isaid, come here.”
The command makes my jaw clench, but I cross the room until I’m standing a few feet away from her chair. Close enough that I can see the hard glint in her eyes. Far enough that she can’t reach me without standing.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather not.”
Her fingers stop drumming. “Sit down, Violet.”
“I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”
She stands in one fluid motion, and I resist the urge to step back. She’s taller than me. Has always used her height to intimidate.
