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Me:Miss you more.

Braxton:Dinner in the Moon Garden?

I take a moment to consider. The Moon Garden is one of my favorite spots on this rock—a place I think of as uniquely ours. But as tempting as his offer is, it’s better for us to eat with the rest of the Blues—to at least give the appearance of playing by Arthur’s rules.

Me:Maybe after. See you downstairs?

Braxton:I’ll save you a spot.

Moments before I’m about to enter the Winter Room, I pause just outside the doorway, captivated by the haunting cadence of the opening strains of one of the most beloved and recognizable pieces in classical piano—Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonata.

It’s funny to think how, before I came to Gray Wolf, I didn’t know or care about classical music. Yet, standing here now, with the sonata’s gently rolling notes washing over me, I’m so ensnared by the music’s spell I barely register the warmth of an arm encircling my waist.

“You are breathtaking,” Braxton says, and I turn to find his deep blue eyes brimming with such intense admiration, it ignites a surge of happiness within me.

“And you’re as handsome as ever,” I reply, noting how the bandages that once wrapped his head and neck are replaced by bandages that are far more discreet.

My eyes trace the sharp lines of his charcoal gray suit, surprised to see he’s paired it with an emerald silk pocket square that perfectly matches my dress.

“Shall we?” He grins, clasping my hand. As we step inside the room, my eyes widen with wonder at the spectacle unfolding before us.

“Wow,” I say, “Arthur has truly outdone himself.”

Gone are the quaint, Disney-esque scenes Arthur usually favors for our dinners—like the hologram fawn teetering across ice, under the watchful eye of its mother as a light holographic snow falls from the sky. Instead, we’re immersed in an environment that transcends mere decoration or theme.

Tonight, I’m actually walking the swirling landscape of Vincent Van Gogh’sStarry Night.

This painting, a staple of college dorm rooms and a muse to countless artists, now surrounds us in stunningly real holographic form. Its iconic imagery brought to life in a way that’s both breathtaking and surreal.

Yet, amid the awe, a deeper, more unsettling feeling begins to take root. As I watch the holographic night sky pulse with Van Gogh’s vibrant collection of stars, the true message behind this choice seems to crystallize before me.

This isn’t just a dinner.

It’s a declaration, a signal of Arthur’s intentions laid bare in the guise of artistic tribute.

Arthur is dead set on securing his Star, and he won’t let up until I bring it to him.

21

Braxton and I navigate our way throughStarry Night, surrounded by an immersive 360-degree panorama of Van Gogh’s swirling cosmos brought to life. The haunting melody ofMoonlight Sonataplays in the background, amplifying the palpable tension in the air. A flicker of deep apprehension simmers within, and the moment I see him, I know why.

Arthur has positioned himself at the head of the table where the Blues usually eat.

It’s rare for Arthur to join us for dinner. Then again, this is no ordinary meal. Arthur has raised the stakes, and tonight, every gesture, every word, holds an unspoken weight.

Braxton, ever attuned to my moods, leans in, his breath a gentle whisper against my ear. “Tasha, you all right?”

I breathe in the scent of lavender and freshly cut grass, listening to the soft rustling Provence wind and the distant hoot of an owl weaving through Beethoven’s opus. Masking my tension with forced cheer, I say, “Later. For now, we both play our parts.”

I pause at the edge of my chair, anticipating Braxton’s usual display of good manners. But Arthur stands quickly, and with an unexpected gallantry, he pulls my seat back.

“Impressive,” he says, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration as his eyes sweep over my attire, a mixture of approval and something deeper that I can’t quite grasp.

Jago seizes the moment, echoing, “Stunning,” sparking an immediate eye roll from Elodie.

Finn and Oliver offer warm smiles and nods, but my attention drifts past them to Mason at the far end of the table. He’s dressed in a brilliant cobalt suit—a perfect match for Van Gogh’s skies.

Our eyes meet. I shoot him a questioning look, surprised to see he’s already advanced to Blue. Instead of explaining, he offers a quick, reassuring wave. The gold crown ring I gave him glints under the light, a subtle message of solidarity and a comforting reminder that he forgives me for the role I inadvertently played in bringing him here. He’s still my best friend—someone I can rely on.