* * *
The gala had already begun.
Music drifted faintly through the corridors—something orchestral and elegant, strings rising and falling in slow, expensive waves. The closer they came, the louder the murmur of voices grew. Not student voices. Older. Richer. The kind that had never needed to shout to be obeyed.
At the end of the final corridor stood a pair of enormous gilded doors thrown open to light.
Beyond them the gala unfurled in obscene splendor.
The hall was vast enough to swallow a cathedral. Black marble columns climbed toward a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations in gold leaf. Chandeliers rained crystal fire across the room. Balconies curved overhead in tiers, crowded with masked guests in silk and velvet and jewels that flashed like knives. Below, the floor gleamed dark and reflective beneath hundreds of moving bodies. Servants glided through the crowd with silver trays of champagne. Faculty and patrons clustered beneath banners embroidered with old family crests.
At the far end rose the dais.
Raised. Lit. Waiting.
Lyra’s breath caught—not at the beauty, but at the structure. The arrangement of attention. The way the entire room subtly orienteditself toward that platform, as though something would be displayed there. Presented. Examined.
Sold.
Her fingers dug into Caelum’s arm hard enough to hurt.
He did not react.
A herald’s voice rang out, clear and practiced. Conversation dimmed.
“Lord Caelum Thorne of North Tower.”
Heads turned. Dozens. Then hundreds.
Their attention struck Lyra like cold water.
Caelum guided her forward.
She felt every eye as they stepped into the blaze of chandeliers and whispered music. Felt them taking in the gown, the hair, the choker, the poise forced onto her body by fear and satin boning. Fragments drifted past.
“…that’s her…”
“…even prettier than reported…”
“…unclassified, yes…”
“…the Thorne claim was a masterstroke…”
The words slid beneath her skin like hooks.
She kept walking.
Because what else was there to do?
At the foot of the dais, Caelum leaned down, voice for her alone. “Do not speak unless spoken to.”
There it was again.
NotI’m sorry. Nottrust me. NotI won’t let them have you.
Only control and command.
Only proof, over and over, that she had been right to run and wrong to think she had ever mattered beyond what he wanted to own.
