I turned toward the entrance, expecting her to be wrong, praying I had misheard.
Konflict walked into the hall with a woman clinging to his arm as if she belonged there.
I looked at him, and for a single disloyal heartbeat, my body betrayed me. He was all I could see. Even from across the room, the light slid over his rich chestnut-copper skin, deep bronze heat making every line of him look sculpted. The open collar of his suit exposed the beginning of the tattoos climbing his chest. Dark patterns I’d imagined touching more times than I’d ever admit, I once dreamed of tracing with my fingers, my mouth, if he hadn’t spent eleven months pretending I never mattered. I’d seen the tattoos on his neck, his arms, his hands whenever his sleeves were rolled up or his shirts hung loose, but now, with his collar open, I could see how the designs flowed down over his chest, and it made something inside me ache with curiosity. I wanted to know how they looked under his clothes, what they meant, if they’d feel hot and real under my fingers. His hair was cropped close, making everything about him seem moredangerous, more impossible to ignore, drawing my eyes back again and again even when I tried to look away.
I shook my head to pull myself together. Because what the fuck? Why was I drooling over this man when the motherfucker just walked in here with another woman on his arm?
My chest ached at the thought.
I had never been naïve. Eleven months without any touch, no kiss, and not even a moment of warmth from my husband told me enough about where he sought intimacy. I knew he slept with other women. I expected nothing else from a man who had spoken no vows and made it clear I was nothing but a woman he can’t wait to end.
But knowing it andseeingit were two entirely different kinds of pain.
The humiliation rose fast and hot, settling in my chest and making it hurt to breathe. The wives around me shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to stare. Their pity cut deeper than the shame.
Then Konflict finally looked at me.
His gaze swept over my body in one slow, consuming drag, and for a heartbeat the room tilted. Because the way he looked at me—just for that breath—felt unmistakably hungry. As if he wanted to strip layers away from my body, leaving nothing but my skin and him wanting every piece of it. I saw it in his eyes, how they tightened slightly and shifted as if he had to stop himself from reacting, how the air between us thickened into something that scorched down my spine.
If I didn’t know better, I would have believed he wanted to drag me into the nearest dark corner and tear the dress off me just to feel my body against his.
But the moment vanished as quickly as it came.
His expression iced over, and whatever had flickered in his stare was buried under the same hatred he’d fed me since theday we were bound. He didn’t approach me. And he sure didn’t acknowledge me as his wife.
He turned away, dragging the woman with him, straight toward the circle of family heads who watched him with disapproval tightening their lips. Konflict didn’t care. He never did. Bringing her here wasn’t an oversight—it was a message, one he wanted the entire room to read the same way he had carved his threats into me eleven months ago.
Only this time the blade cutthroughme.
My vision blurred but I blinked fast, refusing to let tears fall for the entirety of Emberwick’s elite to feast on. I excused myself and walked toward the bar. The bartender placed a glass on the counter before I even asked, perhaps sensing the storm trembling under my skin. I wrapped my fingers around it, hoping the chill would numb the ache building in my chest.
“Beautiful dress.”
I didn’t hear her approach until her perfume drifted beside me.
I turned slowly.
The woman Konflict walked in with stood at my side, studying me with a smile that held a little too much pride for someone flaunting herself with another woman’s husband. She was beautiful and impossible to ignore. Tall with endless legs worthy of a runway model, her dress perfectly hugging every curve. Her skin was a flawless caramel, smooth and glowing under the lights, and her almond-shaped eyes watched me with a cool confidence. I could see how much her beauty fit this room, how easily she turned heads. It hurt to admit it, but she had a presence that made my heart twist with envy. She seemed to be around my age, maybe a year or two older at most, definitely from my generation, and everything about her screamed that she belonged beside men like Konflict. I saw every detail, recognized her beauty, and it stung because I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real.
“Would you tell me the boutique? I’d love to get one for myself.”
Rage curled low in my stomach, but I kept my expression polite.
“I don’t think that will be possible,” I answered softly. “The tailor works exclusively for the Korven family. And unless I’m mistaken, you’re not a Korven… are you?”
Her smile sharpened.
“UnlessI’mmistaken, I walked in tonight on the arm of the Korven head himself. I doubt Konflict would mind connecting me with his tailor, considering how close we are. And I assure you, I can afford anything I want. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Eleana Sawyer.”
Sawyer.
Of course she was.
Their family had been slithering across Emberwick for months, trying to claim a seat at the Big Six table. I heard whispers that they wanted to replace my family. Private galleries scattered across Canada, high-end collections rooted in Vancouver, Toronto, and Montreal. They had money, but Emberwick offered what no other city could. Protection and immunity. That untouchable status came with real sovereignty. The Sawyer’s were desperate to lock it in and now she was standing here in front of me, pretending she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.
Fire tightened behind my ribs.
I leaned in just enough for my voice to reach her clearly.
