“Good point,” I say. This location works for me, however. I’ve got a little side mission that will include hacking into Alana’s family servers. I mean, it’s not like I’m goingto hurt anyone. For sure, I’d never harm Alana, but I do need access, and this party is a perfect distraction.
Rosalie looks around at the sea of glittering gowns and streamlined, gleaming tuxes. “Everyone from Silicon Valley is here,” she murmurs.
“And both mafias,” I add.
“Ella,” she hisses. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.”
“You’re not supposed to talk about it. I don’t give a hoot.” The word “hoot” feels stupid the second it leaves my mouth, but I commit to it anyway. A shiver crawls up the back of my neck like a cold fingertip. Not just nerves—something heavier. A shift in the air. I pause and scan the room. Yep.
He’s watching me, and I hope he didn’t notice me staring at him a second ago. Something tells me he notices everything.
Justice Beathach. Thorn’s brother and enforcer. For years, nobody even knew he existed, but when Thorn and Alana went public, he was found out. I believe he’s now the most eligible bachelor in the world, which is probably something he hates. I kept the article and pictures, just for research purposes. Of course. Currently, he’s standing by the window like a predator in a designer tux, staring through the crowd like he’s memorizing everyone’s weak spots.
Rosalie follows my gaze and manages to remain quiet for half a beat. “He watches you a lot, and I can’t say there’s any amusement in his eyes.”
“Oh no,” I agree. “He hates my guts.” Yet, I try not to notice how disgustingly good he looks. That tux hugs his broad frame like it’s been tailored perfectly for eachmuscled inch. He has dark hair and brown, copper-flecked eyes sharper than razors as well as shoulders wide enough to block the sun … or a bullet. And he’s still staring at me like he’s deciding if tonight’s the night.
“Youdidtry to kill his brother,” Rosalie murmurs.
“I didn’t know Alana was going to fall in love with Thorn,” I snap, trying to look casual. Like I’m not deeply aware that Justice is probably the most dangerous man in this room.
Forget the “probably.” Heisthe most dangerous. And he really, truly wants me dead.
I glance down at my citrine-encrusted heels, which sparkle like tiny suns caught in a death trap. Absolutely stunning. Completely useless if I need to run. But the citrine grounds me.
Every human has an affinity with a specific crystal, whether they know it or not. Most people never bother to learn, never take the time to actually engage with that pull humming just under their skin. But some of us know all about the energy exchange. We feel it. The strongest ability toharnessthe power only belongs to particular bloodlines, I’m fairly certain. Those of us at the top? We were born into it.
The owners of the four social media giants are not there via coincidence. We all come from long lines of crystal-bound bloodlines. Old power. Ancient tech, dressed up in modern servers where crystals run computer systems with more electrical power than imaginable. Everyone thinks social media platforms are run by codes and data. They’re not. We’re using amplified magic.
Right now, diamonds are powering the servers at TimeGem Moments, a social media company that allowsviewers to share memories, and one that should be mine. TimeGem is my birthright. My company. My network. But diamonds aren’t the right crystal for our system. They’re all flash, no flow. My stepmother charges them with her abilities in a simple energy exchange, sure, but it’s all brittle. Citrines are better. Stronger. More intuitive. And they’re mine. I can exchange power with citrines by placing my hands on those crystals and moving energy between us in a way my stepmother can only dream about.
Citrine is my key back in, assuming I survive long enough to reclaim what’s mine and the assassins don’t get to me first. “Rosalie, I’ll be right back.” I turn slightly. “I’m going to run to the restroom.”
Her eyes drop to my heels and then rise with one dark brow arching. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing bad,” I say, a little too quickly.
Rosalie sighs, slow and theatrical. “Come on, Ella. It’s Alana’s wedding. Can we please just enjoy ourselves and not cause any problems?”
“I’m not causing problems,” I protest. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt Alana.”
She shifts her weight. “That’s not the same as not causing problems.”
“I just have a little business to conclude. Trust me.”
She studies me like she’s trying to see through to the server room hiding behind my eyes. “I always trust you.”
Warmth floods through me. It pools in my chest and lights up my bones. She means it. Just like Alana does. They trust me, even knowing what I can do, what I have done. Even knowing I’ve hacked places I absolutely shouldn’t have. But it’s my one true talent, and I don’t want to let it go.
Rosalie glances around. “Where’s your date?”
I spot Wesley Whisper at the cake table. “Over there.”
He looks good in a suit. Really good. His blond hair is freshly cut, and his frame’s more muscular than anyone expects from a code junkie. Wesley isn’t just any programmer: He works for Alana’s family and is the genius behind their algorithm. We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a few months now.
I really like the guy.
He looks up, catches me watching, and waves. He looks sober. Grounded. Present. I smile, humor bubbling up in my chest.
