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And I despise her.
Not just for what she did to him.
But for how beautiful she looks standing beside me.
She’s all power and poise and glacial composure—and next to her, I feel like every flaw I’ve tried to bury is under a microscope. My dress is suddenly too simple. My lipstick too soft. My presence tooyoung.
She hasn’t evenspokenyet, and I already want to scream.
Riven’s posture stiffens behind me. I don’t turn, but I know he’s shifted his weight—ready to strike if she so much asbreatheswrong.
Silas watches her like he’s counting the number of ways he could curse her shoes without being caught.
I finally glance sideways.
Ambrose hasn’t moved.
But I can see it—something in his jaw, the tension buried so deep it’s calcified. His hands are folded in his lap. Perfectly composed. But his eyes are dead ahead, fixed on the stage like if he justdoesn’t blink,she won’t exist.
I look away before I can feel too much.
Keira takes the seat directly across from us, her gown folding like waves. Lorian remains standing, his presence all thunderclouds and judgment, silent butfelt.
And I sit there, in the middle of it all, pretending my pulse isn’t a war drum, pretending I don’t care that next to her—I’m forgettable.
I don’t think.
I justmove.
Slide forward on instinct, casual enough to pretend it’s a shift in my seat, a flick of curiosity about the box’s edge—but it isn’t. It’s calculated. It’s war dressed in silk.
I plant myself between Ambrose andher.
Keira.
She’s lounging across from us like a coronation is happening in her name. Legs crossed, fingers draped elegantly over the armrest, head tilted just enough to make her look bored and predatory at the same time.
Her presence is a taunt. A wound reopened. Her gown gleams like venom in candlelight and her eyes never stop flicking toward Ambrose—like she’s testing him, pushing to see if he’ll flinch, if he’ll fall.
But I don’t let her have him. Not tonight.
I shift, lean ever so slightly into Ambrose’s space, enough to make her view of himimperfect.
And that’s when I hear it.
A breath.
Low. Soft. Pulled through Ambrose’s nose like it costs him. Like he didn’t realize he was holding it until I blocked her from sight. In that moment—this small, quiet act—he lets mehaveit. The shield. The claim. The simple, brutal acknowledgement that what she does still hurts, and that I chose to stand in the way of it.
I may not be bound to him.
We may never be.
But Ambrose isone of us.And I will not watch her carve him open for sport.
She knows it too. Keira’s lips twitch into a slow smile—not surprised, not upset. Amused.
Two can play this game,her gaze says.