I looked down at the photo again, studying every detail. Her green eyes, the faint curve of her plump mouth, the freckle on her left temple.
The memory of her standing there in the fog today flickered through my mind once again. The way she’d looked at me, and the way my pulse had picked up when she did.
I fuckingknewthere was something familiar about her. A pull I couldn’t name. Now I knew what it was. She had the exact same eyes as her sister, despite every other physical detail being different.
I turned the page, scanning the rest of the file: academic records, family background, an obituary for her sister. Calista Hoffman. The official report said it was an accidental death, but we all knew better.
Roman took another sip of Scotch. “You’ll get a full briefing from the Council tomorrow, but really, all you need to do is watch her. You can even befriend her, if that’s what it takes.Just… keep her close. We can’t risk her digging into Calista’s connection to the Club.”
I gave him a slow nod in response, but my eyes stayed on her photo.
Keep her close.
Yeah. That wouldn’t be a problem.
3
Violet
The Lysander auditoriumhad been transformed into something out of a dream.
Strings of warm Edison bulbs crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling, casting everything in a soft amber glow, and silk cloths in deep jewel tones had been draped from the rafters, creating intimate alcoves throughout the space. At the center of it all, a massive chandelier constructed entirely from crystals and mirrors rotated slowly, scattering fragments of light across the walls like stars.
“Welcome to Midsummer!” Jeremiah said, appearing at my elbow with two drinks in hand. He thrust one toward me; something pale pink in a coupe glass, garnished with a sprig of lavender. “Cherry outdid herself this time. Last semester's welcome bash was good, but this is next level.”
I took the glass with a smile and glanced around, taking the rest of it in. The stage had been converted into a dance floor, where bodies swayed beneath a canopy of hanging vines and paper flowers. Some people had gone all out with costumes—flowing white dresses, flower crowns, even gossamer wings—while others had simply added a touch of glitter or a strand of ivyto their hair. The overall effect was enchanting without being too over the top.
“This is amazing,” I said, really meaning it. It was the perfect place to unwind after my first week at BHU, which had been a whirlwind of new classes, unfamiliar faces, and the constant gnawing anxiety of my real reason for being here. But tonight, standing in this magical space with a drink in my hand and Jeremiah grinning beside me, I could almost forget why I'd come.
Almost.
“Come on,” Jeremiah said, linking his arm through mine. “Dylan’s over by the food table. You have to try his mushroom tarts. They're literally life-changing.”
He pulled me through the crowd, weaving between clusters of students. As we walked, I caught snippets of chatter: upcoming auditions, weekend plans, someone's disastrous hookup story.
We found Jeremiah’s boyfriend Dylan stationed near a long table draped in dark green velvet. Platters of food were arranged across its surface—tiny tarts, bruschetta, skewers of fruit and cheese, and an elaborate charcuterie board that looked like a work of art.
“Hey!” Dylan called out, waving us over. He was wearing a crown of twisted branches and holding a goblet. He flashed me a friendly smile as we stepped up. “You must be the new girl Jer told me about. Violet, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s nice to meet you,” I said, returning his smile. “This place looks amazing.”
“All Cherry,” Dylan said, gesturing toward a petite blonde in a flowing white dress who was adjusting one of the silk drapes nearby. “She's been planning this for ages. I just helped with the food.”
“Don't let him downplay it,” Jeremiah said, slinging an arm around Dylan's shoulders. “He's been in the kitchen for two days straight. I barely saw him.”
Dylan grinned and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, someone has to make sure you people don't just survive on pizza and energy drinks.”
The blonde headed over to us and introduced herself to me with a bright smile before reaching for one of the tarts and popping it into her mouth with an appreciative hum. “Oh my god, Dyl, please marry me.”
"Sorry. Taken," Dylan said, pressing a kiss to Jeremiah's temple.
I laughed and took a tart for myself, letting out a groan of delight as the buttery pastry melted on my tongue. It really was proposal-worthy.
I let myself relax as I feasted on the delicious canapés, listening to Cherry as she excitedly filled us in on what was going to be the theater’s main production this semester; a Brontë and Tarantino crossover play called ‘Wuthering Heist’.
Suddenly, I felt it again. That prickling sensation at the back of my neck that I'd felt in the colonnade earlier this week, right before Julian Valcourt had appeared out of nowhere.
I turned, scanning the party, but there were too many people. Too many faces half-hidden in shadow.
