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“You never should have run, Arianette. And once you did, you never should have stopped.”Armand’s voice comes whispering back.“It’s simple really. You know too much.”

He turns his back to me and stares at the fire. It’s a dismissal but it feels more like a slap in the face.

That’s when I know. I understand it with a clarity that cuts through my muddled, exhausted mind. I’m going to burn everything. The Manor. Him. Myself.

The whole bloodstained history.

I rise quietly. First grabbing the small knife next to the bowl of lemons, I pick up the bottle of whiskey by the bar, still uncapped. My fingers are steady now. I’m beyond fear. Beyond hope. That left me hours ago, somewhere back in the forest, maybe on the side of the road.

The thick scent of alcohol hits me hard and I grab another bottle. Then another. I trail through the parlor, sloshing liquor over the Persian rugs, the silk-upholstered chairs, the base of the velvet drapes.

When I look back he’s still facing his books, studying the spines. He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Why should he? I’m trash. Used up garbage of no value to him or any other person in this godforsaken town. I light one of the long matches from thefireplace and hold it up. Watch it burn to the tip. Let it kiss the hem of the drapes.

It takes instantly.

There’s a sound–whoompf–as the fire surges up the fabric, catches the rod, leaps to the alcohol-soaked rug like it’s alive. He turns, his expression finally something other than disdain. Fear. Panic.Terror.

Good. Feel what we’ve all felt under this roof.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

My lips crack open in a smile. My last one and fuck, it feels glorious.

“I’m fixing it.”

41

Timothy

Noir Sanctum humslike a pulse beneath the Maddox Hotel. I can feel it in my teeth when I descend the staircase–thick bass, moaning synths, muffled cries of pleasure behind velvet walls. Down here, names don’t matter. Titles mean nothing. Everyone kneels the same when they’re told to.

Except me.

I sit in my usual booth, the one at the back with the best view. The leather seats are worn in all the right places. The lights are low, red-gold and decadent. In this place I’m not required to wear a mask. I’m Timothy Maddox, owner of the hotel, powerful and rich. Legacy of the Barons, but spared the crown.

I tried to throw myself into work, pretending like today was any other day at the hotel. I’m an executive, busy with inventory reports, vendor delays, some bullshit about the wine cellar flooding again. I signed papers I didn’t read. Spoke to workers I didn’t hear. Smiled, occasionally. Nodded where I was supposed to, and did my best not to think about my wife.

Thenewone.

The one whose pussy brought me to my knees.

I grip the glass tighter, wishing it was anything other than club soda, and scour the room for distraction.Anydistraction.

Couples writhe in half-light. A girl with a collar cries on her knees while her Dom praises her. Two men kiss like they’ve been starving for years. Someone thanks someone else through a choked sob. It’s all beautiful, consensual, perfect.

There are two girls across from me putting on a show. They keep glancing my way, eyes full of challenge and invitation, like they’re daring me to look away. I don’t. I let them have me as an audience.

One of them is curled into the other’s lap–lithe and smooth, body draped in soft white fabric. The other is taller, with painted fingers and red lipstick smeared from a kiss. Her hand disappears beneath the mesh fabric of the other girl’s dress and the girl gasps–real, not performative. It isn’t just for me.

They kiss, slow and wet, mouths open. Not sweet. Starving.

The girl in mesh moans when the other bites her bottom lip, then arches her hips against a palm I can’t see. Her thighs part wider, in a show of submission, angled to give me a peek of her slick, bare cunt. Their bodies move in rhythm, grinding slowly to the beat pulsing through the Sanctum. The taller one pushes her fingers deeper under the hem and the other girl's head falls back with a breathy cry. It's beautiful. Intimate. Honest, even.

It’s why I built this club–a place for people to be their true selves.

I should feel something watching them. Jealousy, maybe. Lust. Satisfaction that they come to my club, spend their money, and find pleasure. But all I feel is hollow. It’s not the same tonight. And I sense the change. There’s going to be a before and after.

Before the wedding.