She considers me for a minute and then nods. “If you’re in danger and need help right now, let me know. I can get the bouncers.”
Bouncers can’t help me here. “Thank you for that. I need a different kind of help.”
She directs me down a corridor I didn't explore that first night. Matte black walls stretch before me, scattered with gold leaf that catches the dim lighting from overhead chandeliers like fallen stars trapped in midnight. At the end stands a single red door with gold handles that gleam like they've been polished by devoted hands.
I wrap my fingers around the cool metal and push inside.
The room steals my breath.
Candles line the perimeter, dozens of them, their flames dancing against walls painted a deep black. Swirls of scarlet red twist and curl across the darkened surfaces like someone let their creativity take the brush wherever it wanted to go. The effect is captivating and terrifying in equal measure, a space designed to strip away pretense and leave only raw, desperate truth behind.
The air smells of roses, thick and sweet, saturating my senses until I can taste the petals on my tongue. Vases of them scatter throughout the room, blood-red blooms nestled among cream and blush, their fragrance almost overwhelming in the enclosed space. It's like stepping into a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare dressed in beautiful clothes.
At the center, on a pedestal draped in black velvet, sits a box made of dark wood and gold filigree. The wish box. It gleams in the candlelight like something sacred, something that has witnessed countless desperate prayers and impossible hopes.
A small table beside the box holds a stack of red envelopes and a fountain pen, the materials provided for those who have come to beg for miracles.
What do I wish for?
The question spirals through me. Freedom? Safety? Love? All things that feel impossibly out of reach, trapped as I am in a marriage I didn't choose with a man I can't trust. Someone to take out my father? Someone to make me disappear?
But one word keeps rising to the surface. One desperate, selfish, terrified word.
I press pen to paper.
"I wish someone would make my mistake disappear." - Ilona
The ink gleams wet for a moment before drying. I fold the paper carefully and slip it into one of the red envelopes, sealing the flap with trembling fingers. The envelope feels heavier than it should, weighted with all my fear and desperation and fragile hope. I drop it through the slot in the box, and it falls into darkness with a soft whisper of paper against wood.
I don't know what mistake I mean. The pregnancy? The marriage? The night that started it all? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe the mistake is the part of me that keeps hoping this will somehow work out.
I make it back to Ember House before anyone notices I'm gone. Luca's eyes find mine across the room the moment I slip through the door, dark and searching, but I arrange my features into pleasant neutrality and rejoin the celebration like I never left.
The rest of the reception passes in a blur of champagne and congratulations and Luca's hand warm against the small of my back.
By the time we return to the Lincoln Park mansion, I'm exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with physical tiredness.
I turn toward the hallway that leads to my guest room, already craving the safety of that small rebellion, but Luca's hand catches my elbow.
"Wrong direction, jungle flower." His voice is low, threaded with a heat that makes my skin prickle.
Before I can protest, he sweeps me into his powerful arms. One arm hooks beneath my knees, the other braces my back, and suddenly my feet are no longer touching the ground. I gasp andgrab his shoulders for balance, my fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
"I can walk," I manage, though my voice comes out breathless.
"Mm. I know." He carries me down the opposite hallway, his stride unhurried, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes heat curl low in my belly. "But from this night forward, we never sleep alone. Whatever else this marriage is or isn't, we face the nights together."
He shoulders open a door and carries me across the threshold like a bride in truth rather than transaction.
The master bedroom is nothing like the guest room. It’s larger and much more personal. There’s a massive bed draped in dark silk that dominates the space, flanked by windows that overlook a private garden. Candles flicker on the nightstands, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with more books and what looks like original artwork.
Obviously placed there by staff not too long ago.
He sets me down in the center of the bed, the silk cool against my bare legs. He stands over me for a moment. The candlelight plays across his features, softening the sharp edges, making him look almost tender.
I was almost safe, but now I feel like I’m deep in enemy territory with no support.
"Your conditions." His voice is low, careful. "I remember them. I won't touch you until you ask." He moves toward the bed, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. "But I am going to hold you."
