I settled on a very vague “Who knows.”
“Are you still fighting over the party?”
My lips pulled into a frown.
Henry cocked his head. “Does he know you kissed E?”
“Are you trying to make this day even more miserable?”
His eyebrows lifted. “No. You seem to be doing fine on your own.”
Another fucking pang of guilt.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I mumbled.
“Gee, thanks, little brother, for putting together this amazing party in my name. Oh no, Ash, it’s my pleasure. Anything for my big brother. It wasn’t a problem at all.” He walked in front of me, miming the whole conversation.
“Thank you, Henny.”
He turned back to me, sheepish. “It’s not fun if you’re actually in a bad mood.”
I shook my head. “I’ll get over it.”
We rode to the venue, not too far away, while Henry kept chatting beside me. He had a habit of doing that—filling the silence when he was uncomfortable or when he knew someone else was having a hard time. Normally, I’d let him distract me. Tonight, I didn’t have it in me to play along. I just needed to get through the evening so I could spend tomorrow at home wallowing in dignified self-pity.
The venue was… a lot.
Red drapery hung from the ceiling in long, dramatic swaths, pooling into the shadows like spilled silk. Chandeliers glittered overhead—massive, obsidian-dark structures dripping gold and throwing warm light across the room, so everything glowed in shades of crimson and candlelight. Every surface gleamed. Every corner flickered. It was decadent in that curated, slightly sinful way Henry adored: a room built to blur the line between indulgence and excess.
Roses—deep red, almost black—sat in narrow vases, looking more like props than flowers, their shadows long and theatrical against the walls. Servers moved as if they’d rehearsed it, slipping through the room with trays of champagne and lowball glasses. Somewhere above, an aerialist swung lazily on a ring, her body carving slow arcs of shadow across the draped ceiling.
It smelled like wine, roses, expensive perfume, and melted wax. Saints and Sinners, Henry had said. More like a cathedral built for sin.
“This is amazing, Henny,” I said, readily accepting the glass a server offered. I took a sip. Perfect.
Henry paced in front of me with his arms spread wide, the picture of smug delight. “A night to remember, right?” Then he held something out—an ornate mask.
I lifted a brow. “Really?”
“Fit for the devil,” he said, grinning as he slipped a rosary over his neck like it was an accessory instead of sacrilege.
I turned the mask over in my hand. Red leather, deep ridges carved into the brow, sweeping upward into stylized horns. Silk ties, of course. Henry wouldn’t allow elastic anywhere near his aesthetic. I sighed, resigned, placing my drink on a nearby table, and donned the mask.
“Well,” Henry said, stepping back to admire his work. “Terrifying. Exactly what we were going for.”
He drifted toward someone across the room, already pulled into conversation, leaving me alone just as Elena appeared at my side, immaculate as ever, a glass of champagne poised between her fingers.
“Happy birthday, Ash.” She brushed a kiss against my cheek.
“Thank you.”
Her gaze moved once around the room before settling back on me. “I was under the impression we agreed to stop pursuing the state follow-up.”
My stomach tightened. I took a measured sip of my drink. “We did.”
“Oscar seems to think otherwise.” Her tone remained even. “He mentioned revisions. Calls.”
Heat climbed the back of my neck.
