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My stomach turned. My pulse picked up. Maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t responding because our “bond” was a performance.

Roman shifted his stance, blocking more of Lucien’s view of me. “Then give it the night. Let everyone drink and dance. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Lucien glanced around the room like the walls might have ears, then gave a curt nod. “Fine. I’m going to take a shot of top-shelf tequila and try to forget about it until sunrise. But if those readings are still flat tomorrow…” His smile sharpened to a blade. “I don’t know what we do next.”

He patted Roman’s arm, turned with a swirl of silk, and melted back into the crowd.

If the wards were relying on this whole farce to work—and it wasn’t working—then what? What happened when the magic called our bluff?

Out of nowhere, someone clipped my elbow with their purse. It was just enough force to jolt my hand and send half the water cascading down my arm. I gasped quietly, flinching as the chill bled through the fabric of my dress and soaked into my shoulder. The sharp sting of cold trickled under the strap, and I fumbled for napkins off the bar top.

Roman didn’t notice. Still talking. Still pretending everything was fine.

I blotted at my arm, dabbing the fabric like a woman trying not to make a scene, until something caught in the corner of my eye.

Seraphina. Waltzing toward me like she was floating, one hand wrapped around Dwight’s arm and the other holding a flute of champagne with the confidence of a girl who’d gotten everything she wanted.

She looked happy. Radiant, even. Her eyes sparkled with something genuine and soft. Her hair was pinned up with perfect intention, strands tucked behind one ear so the entire left side of her neck was on display.

The claiming mark was unmistakable. Two raised scabs just above her collarbone, deep and red-purple like a permanent bruise. It looked painful. And proud.

And then it hit me.

Scars. Bruises. Water.

Fuck. The water. My hand was still clutching a damp napkin. Had I—? I dropped it and reached up to brush my fingertips along the curve of my neck, where Roman had faked the bite the night before.

The makeup. The foundation. The fake blood stain Roman had blended so carefully.

Was it gone?

My skin felt… smooth. Not sticky. Not powdery. Just skin. Panic flared in my chest. Without thinking, I tugged my hair loose from its twist and let it fall across my shoulder, covering my neck. I did it quickly. Too quickly. Like I was hiding something.

Because I was.

I scanned the room, heart hammering. I didn’t see Lucien. I didn’t see any of the elders. Roman’s eyes narrowed. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. Just whispered the word, barely audible. “Scars.”

He stilled. His hand ghosted over my lower back as his face paled. “Shit.” He tilted my face toward the light and cursed under his breath. “It’s gone.”

“No kidding.”

“I can try to fix it.”

“With what? A cocktail napkin and red wine?”

His lips twitched like he wanted to laugh but knew better. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You keep saying that,” I whispered, “but we’re not figuring anything out. We’re tap dancing.”

“I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t sure what he was sorry for—this moment, this mess, all the damn pretending—but I nodded anyway. I tried not to think about how Seraphina’s scar had made her glow. Or how mine never existed to begin with.

And then, of course, Seraphina came over.

“Maggie,” she said brightly, launching into a hug like we’d been besties for years instead of passive-aggressive rivals with a history of hallway snarling.