Roman shakes Art’s hand, but his eyes find mine over Art’s shoulder, and there’s something careful in them. And I have this unnerving sense that he knows more than he’s letting on. That heseesright through me.
Merrick appears at my side.
“Congratulations,” he says, and his voice is warm, but his eyes flick to Lance’s chair.
It’s empty.
My heart drops through the floor.
I scan the room, frantic behind my smile, and catch the back of a black suit disappearing through the far doors. He looks measured, and controlled, hands in his pockets, like he’s taking an evening stroll.
Even now, even leaving, he won’t let anyone see the cracks.
Knights protect the queen.
Even when it kills them.
“Baby.” Art turns me toward him, his hands on my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive.”
I smile. I sparkle. I play the part.
“You’ve made me so happy,” I echo, and the ring catches the light between us, heavy as a shackle.
Chapter 35
Lance
I make it as far as my mother’s garden before my legs stop cooperating.
The noise from the party is muffled out here. Music and laughter and champagne-drunk congratulations bleeding through the walls like something from a different planet. The air is cold and it smells like October, and I lean against the stone wall of the terrace and try to remember how to breathe.
She said yes.
She looked at me across the table with a diamond the size of a small country in a velvet box, and I told her to say yes.
Because what the fuck else was I supposed to do?
And how did Art even afford that?
My hands are shaking. I stare at them like they belong to someone else, and then my fist connects with the stone wall before I register the decision to swing. Pain explodes across my knuckles, and I welcome it because at least it’s something I understand. At least it follows rules I know. Action. Then consequence.
Not like the rest of this.
“That wall’s been standing for eighty years. I’d appreciate if you didn’t bring it down tonight.”
I turn. Paxton is standing at the edge of the terrace, champagne flute in one hand, the other in his pocket. His suit is pristine, like it always is, and his expression is unreadable. He looks exactly like our father, and looking at him right now makes me feel sick.
“Pax.”
“You left in a hurry.” He walks toward me, his shoes clicking against the stone. “Before the congratulations. People noticed.”
“People can fuck off.”
His eyebrows rise a fraction. That’s a lot of emotion for Paxton. He studies me, his gaze going from the split knuckles to my clenched jaw. Probably wondering why I’m standing in his garden in the dark instead of inside toasting my best friend’s engagement.
“It was rather rude of Art to commandeermyparty to make a grand statement about a girl his father clearly doesn’t like.”
I let out a sharp huff, my shoulders slumping. “Yeah. Well, Art’s been a piece of shit lately.”
