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“Did I?” he asks, his subtle shift audible in the rustled fabric of his suit. His voice is deep, the rumble of it settling uneasily in my gut. “You know, my father hasn’t spoken to me in almost two years–not since they took me away.”

I frown. “Your father?”

The man sighs in a quiet, casual way. “But he loves to send a discreet message, that’s more his style.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I take a step forward, narrowing my eyes to get a better look. “Do I… know you?”

“Parts of me,” he replies. At this distance, I see his elbow moving slowly, and I squint, trying to make out what he’s stroking. “But it’s been a while. You’ve been in school. Living life. Being free. You’ve probably forgotten all about the guy you stole that from.” Before I can argue that he has me confused with someone else–maybe he’s drunk–he tips forward. “Haven’t you,Rosilocks?”

I stiffen at the name, his voice like ice against my neck. “You’re…” The guy on the dating app. The video of him masturbating.Videos, plural, the later ones showing him holding a photo of me, spilling his thick, ropey seed on my face.

Later on, Laura and Haley would laugh about it in the dressing room with me. “They’re called tributes, sweetie,” they said in that fond way of theirs, as if I was so naive and young, and they found it adorable. But before that came the panic and the disgust, and me turning everything over to the campus police. That was almost two years ago, and I never heard a word about it again.

“You’re that… thatpervert.” It’s all I can manage to say past my heart being lodged in my throat.

He replies, “And you’re the uptight bitch who didn’t know how to take a compliment.” His right leg falls to the side, another rustle of fabric the only sound between us. “You see, Rosilocks, my father is the master manipulator. Setting up people like pieces on his chessboard is a sport for him. All this time, I thought I was being punished.” After a pause, “Well, I am. But the minute I saw that you were one of the prospective Princesses, I knew he’d been waiting to make his move–to get me back in the game.”

I slide back, too confused with his words to question the movement of his arm. “W-what are you talking about?”

And then he stands, making it all too clear.

His pants are unbuttoned, fly down, his thick cock gripped in his large hand.

The tip is gleaming and wet.

My belly drops and I spring for the door, but just as quickly as the instinct arrives, his body is there, swift and tall–so fucking tall that it’s practically nothing for him to block my escape, herding me back.

His voice comes low and venomous, eyes two narrow blots of shadow. “I’ve thought about this night for two years, Rosilocks. Imagining you out there, living it up while I was locked away, rotting in a cell. Do you know what it’s like to hear grown men–men bigger and scarier than me–crying for their mothers at night? Do you know how fucking bleak that is?” He bears down on me like a storm, his fist sliding up and down his shaft.

The motion isn’t all that unlike watching a Duke load their weapon.

He gives a soft, dark laugh. “Of course you don’t. The jewel of West End cunts, all safe and sound in her fortified gutter, wouldn’t know the first thing about the consequences of her own fucking actions.”

I avert my eyes, face twisting. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

His free hand reaches out, fingers snagging the curve of my neckline. With a quick downward yank, he exposes my breast, the back of his knuckles rolling over my nipple as he struggles against my protest. “You might not remember, but I do. All I did for a year and a half was remember. Your face. Your lips. The way your cheeks looked with my cum dripping down them.” A shudder rolls through him, and when I plant my palms on his shoulder, shoving frantically, his fingers move from my breast to my neck, pulling me into him with an iron grip.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, anger now warring with fear. “I-I reported you, but I didn’t–nothing happened!”

He leans forward, hips pinning me to the railing of the balcony. “Everything happened,” he growls into my ear. His hand jerks, dragging up and down my dress. The ring he’s wearing snags on the beads. “You fucked up my life. You ruinedeverything. Now, I’m going to get a little taste of what I paid for, and you’re going to–” Whatever he means to say gets lost in a strangled grunt, the cords in his neck visible. His grip on my neck tightens, teeth gnashing as he hisses, “Fuck,yes.”

He rears back, head bowed as he squeezes his cock in one hand and my neck in the other, as if he’s forcing me to look down–to watch. I gape as it surges in his palm, spurting milky ropes of cum onto my white dress. I’m so stunned by it that I forget to keep pushing, my palms flat but inert against the warmth of his chest.

I gasp in a hard lungful of chilled air when his grip loosens, the man’s shoulders sagging. There’s a moment of horrific stillness, and then he gives a soft, disappointed sigh, tucking his cock back into his trousers.

“Should have been your face, but best behavior and all that.” His black eyes reflect the glittering lights of Forsyth when he looks up, catching a lock of my hair between two slender fingers. “If I were you, Rosilocks,” he says, leaning in to whisper, “I’d think twice about reporting me again. A guy like me with Royal connections? Let’s just say I made a lot of useful contacts in prison.” To anyone else, it might look like he’s flirting. A roguish Romeo to my Juliet, twirling my hair as he gazes deep into my eyes. But I feel the quiet, creeping menace in his words as his lips brush against the shell of my ear. “Next time, I won’t be so generous.”

He’s gone just as quickly as he came, stepping into the light as he zips his pants. It’s then that I see his face for the first time. Pace Ashby. One of Ashby’s sons.

He’s gone before I can react, reattaching his mask, and striding back into the party. I look down at my dress, the splotch of semen darker than the rest of the white. A glob sits just above where the crinoline flares out. I try to shake it out but it’s too thick and with a frantic grimace, I wipe it off.

The cool, sticky pool clings to my fingers, and I fight a wave of nausea.

My only thought is singular and focused: I’ve got to get out of here.

I need to get back home. Lavinia will understand. There has to be another way.

A chime comes from inside the house, followed by a smooth, commanding voice. “Good evening, everyone.” Ashby’s amplified voice carries to the balcony. “It’s time for the announcement of our Princes and Princess.”