“I don’t think—“ I begin, but Ophelia cuts me off.
“You should come,” she says, her green eyes assessing me and it makes me wonder why she’s going to be there.
“Why the fuck would you torture yourself with that shit?” I ask, wrapping my fingers tighter around my coffee cup. “You’re not part of this fuckery luckily.”
Ophelia rolls her eyes and takes a slow sip of her chai. “I can see why you would think that, but Mr. Crawford specifically told me I was to attend. Apparently being his stepdaughter is now cause for being part of this whole thing.” She swirls her cup around, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“Wait, you’re going to the Choosing Ceremony?” I stare at her in disbelief. “But you’re not?—“
“Part of your little cult? No. But apparently marriage brings certain...obligations.” Her mouth twists into something between a smirk and a grimace. “Asher nearly had an aneurysm when his father announced I’d be attending.”
Valentina shifts uncomfortably beside her. “The Society has certain traditions that are difficult to explain to outsiders.”
“Oh, I think I’ve figured out the gist,” Ophelia says dryly. “Rich boys pick their future arm candy in some archaic ceremony that’s one step removed from buying cattle at auction.”
I choke on my coffee, coughing as the cold liquid goes down the wrong pipe. Holy shit. She really just said that out loud. To Valentina De la Cruz, of all people.
But instead of looking offended, Valentina’s lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “It’s more complicated than that, but not entirely inaccurate.”
“So what’s your stake in this?” I ask Ophelia, suddenly curious. “Why show up to a ceremony you clearly think is fucked up?”
“Because I want to see what kind of twisted shit my new ‘family’ is into,” she says bluntly. “And because I’m not giving Asher the satisfaction of thinking he scared me off.”
There’s something in her eyes—a hardness, a determination—that I immediately recognize. It’s the look of someone who’s been through enough shit to know how to stand their ground.
“Fine,” I say, surprising myself. “What time?”
Valentina’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You’ll come?”
“Yeah, why not? If I’m going to walk into that snake pit tonight, might as well do it with a buzz.” I take a long sip of my coffee. “What time and where?”
“Seven. Penthouse at The Heights.” Valentina pulls out her phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the details.”
I recite my number, wondering what the fuck I’m getting myself into. Pre-gaming the ceremony that might ruin my life with the Society princess and the new girl who doesn’t know what she’s in for.
The walk back to my dorm is a blur. I’m so deep in my own head I nearly get hit by some asshole on a longboard who yells “Watch it, bitch!” as he zips by. I flip him off without breaking stride.
By the time I reach my building, I’ve convinced myself to skip Valentina’s little soirée. What’s the point? I’m not friends with these people. I’m not even in the same stratosphere as Valentina fucking De la Cruz with her perfect life and designer everything.
All I want is to collapse on my bed, put on some mindless reality show, and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist for a few hours.
When I push open my door, I freeze mid-step.
There’s a large, thin black box sitting in the center of my bed. Glossy, expensive-looking, with that same gold filigree that was on the invitation. My heart slams against my ribs so hard I think it might crack bone.
What the actual fuck.
I approach the box like it might bite me, which, given who likely sent it, isn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. The box is about three feet long, maybe a foot wide, tied with a blood-red ribbon that looks like liquid silk.
I know exactly who it’s from. And I know I should throw it out the window without opening it.
Instead, I reach out with trembling fingers and tug at the ribbon. It slides off with a soft hiss, pooling on my comforter like spilled blood. I lift the lid and immediately feel my stomach drop.
Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, is a dress. The most beautiful fucking dress I’ve ever seen. I lift it carefully from the box, letting it unfold in my hands. Black silk that feels like water between my fingers, with a neckline that plunges deep and a slit that rises high. It’s the kind of dress that’s designed to make men forget how to breathe.
For My Little Sinner. Wear this tonight. Or wear nothing at all. The choice is yours. —L
I watched hours of prisoners finding “love” after being locked up before showering the bed rot off me because I’m not showing up to the De la Cruz penthouse looking and smelling like a dumpster fire. I’d prefer only my life choices are referred to as such.
