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Panicking, I dart back into the ballroom, noticing the other eleven girls already lining up. I fix my bodice as I join them, stumbling in my heels in my urgency. I notice the heads turning to watch as I scurry forward, whispered insults drifting to my ears, but when I reach the line of girls, I just exhale and pretend as though I belong.

The man in front of us looks different than I’m used to. I’ve never seen Ashby, their King, in anything else but his pristine white suits. Tonight, he’s in an all black tuxedo. Collar, shirt cuffs, even his socks are black. It looks more like an outfit suited for the Baron King than him.

Ashby doesn’t even look at me as he addresses the room, his graying blond hair shining in the light of the chandelier. “Some are of the mind that tonight is a solemn occasion. A Royal masquerade twice in one year can only mean one thing.” He raises a finger, his beady eyes passing over the crowd. “Failure.”

I shudder at the glint in his eyes. For all Ashby is known for being prim and proper, right now he looks sharp with malice, his eyes absorbing the darkness.

It falls away as he lifts his glass. “But that’s behind us! Tonight isn’t about failure. On the contrary–a second masquerade is actually about renewal. The renewal of promises. The renewal of legacy. The renewal of pride.” His pause is dramatic and loaded, and the people all around me read it for what it’s meant to be.

They all begin clapping.

Ashby smiles indulgently. “And pride is exactly what I feel tonight. Our house is the strongest in Forsyth, and for too long I’ve been unable to fill it with my name. My dear son…” This pause isn’t like the other one. It’s not intentional, nor meant to be filled with cheers. This one is Ashby’s throat tightening with a swallow, his eyes filling with grief as he stares down into his glass of champagne. “My dear son, Michael, who we lost all too soon, would have led this house with such power and grace.” I can feel the anger in his words. The bitterness. He visibly struggles to shake it off. “But since tonight is about renewal, that’s what I intend to do. Renew my pride in the Ashby name.”

“No fucking way.”

The whisper comes from behind me, low and full of stunned dread, but when I twist to find who said it, all I see are the wide, amber eyes of the man who danced with me before.

“This is why I’m particularly excited to announce our three new Princes,” Ashby continues, regaining his picture-perfect composure. Gesturing to the crowd, he lets loose a wide, beaming smile. “My sons, Whitaker, Pace, and Lagan Ashby.”

There’s a long, bewildered silence from everyone, but it’s not long before we begin turning to find them.

The first to drop his mask is the man behind me–amber eyes belonging to none other than Lagan–Lex–Ashby. He’s staring up at his father with a stupefied expression, mask clenched tight in a fist.

The next is the devil himself, Whitaker, who throws his mask off to reveal a furious, incredulous stare.

Lastly is Pace, the weight of his stained semen still dragging at my skirt. He’s over by the orchestra when he lifts a slow, heavy hand to the mask covering his face, plucking it off with such dispassion that I get the impression he’s not exactly happy about the news, either.

I gape at each of them, completely baffled.

The three adopted sons of Ashby aren’t blood. They aren’tRoyal. They aren’t even leaders. They’re just random kids Ashby spent a few years playing house with. All I’ve heard since arriving is how my blood isn’t good enough. My parents aren’t prominent enough. My lineage isn’t established enough.

But when it comes to the men…

The room erupts into a cheer that’s stilted at first, but quickly grows exuberant and celebratory. These people have no issue accepting three ‘bastard’ men to lead their house.

The hurt is unexpected, but the shame isn’t. Suddenly, I know just why I was invited to this charade. It really was a joke, all along. A game, like Pace said–machinations by his father. People of East End are seeing exactly what blood means: Nothing–not if you’re already rich and connected to the elite. But for people like me, the lack of it is all that matters.

For the first time, I let myself acknowledge the pang of disappointment. A part of me, hidden deep inside, had been hoping that maybe Lavinia taking the role of Duchess didn’t close the door on my potential to be Royal. Hoping I’d been picked because someone finally saw something special in me.

Hoping I was good enough.

The new Princes meet in the middle of the room–some strides more willing than others–before joining Ashby at the forefront. Lex stands awkwardly stiff, while at his side, Pace ducks his head, glaring daggers into the toes of his shiny shoes.

Whitaker looks murderous.

I’m so caught up in the injustice–the secret, scandalous disappointment of knowing I’ve let the Queens down–that I forget Ashby still has another announcement to make.

“Princess isn’t a title that just any mere woman can wield,” he’s saying, ignoring his sons. “It’s a crown in and of itself. A mark of a strong, unique, powerful woman. To be chosen as Princess means that you, my lovely girls, are the best of the best. This is not a decision I make lightly.” His dark eyes pass over all of us, turning serious. “Our next Princess will also be one of renewal, as the girl I’ve chosen tonight has something the rest of you don’t.” He lifts a hand, listing off, “Class. Poise. Strength. Chastity.Fire.”

It’s the fourth word that causes a chorus of frightened exhales to my left and right.

Chastity.

I can feel the semen on my dress like a physical burn.

“You’re all beauties,” Ashby assures, sending us a superior grin. “But the fact is, only one of you is fit to sit on our throne tonight. So without further ado,” he motions at the orchestra, “please join me in welcoming your next Royal Princess.”

The violins begin swelling, and to my left, one of the girls–Gina–blindly grabs my hand, squeezing hard as she gapes up at the King.