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I turn to scan the faces, but I’m not sure who she’s talking about.

When I quickly turn back, Eleanora’s gaze is lowered and she’s glancing down at something hidden behind the tulle of her dress.

It looks like… a phone. But not her usual sleek iPhone adorned with rhinestones.

This is an ancient purple flip phone, the kind that became obsolete because all it does is send black and white texts and make calls.

I frown. Eleanora, fashion-forward and constantly documenting her life on social media, using something that can’t even run Instagram? It’s odd .

She checks it quickly, thumbs flying over the number pad before tucking it away again. When she looks up, she finds me watching and gives a small smile. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“The guy who I said to look at.”

“No…”

She shrugs, apparently done with that topic of interest.

“Why do you have—” I start to ask about her strange phone, but a woman suddenly materializes beside us.

“Eleanora!” The woman’s voice is soft, almost musical in its gentle cadence. She embraces my friend with genuine warmth, and Eleanora’s face lights up in response.

“Bianca! Perfect timing.” Eleanora turns to me, her hand gesturing excitedly between us. “Aurelia, this is my friend Bianca. We met at Peet’s because I noticed she was wearing the exact same Zimmerman top, can you believe that?”

“Wow, crazy,” I try to say with enthusiasm but it comes out bland. I’m too occupied trying to study Bianca with the practiced eye of someone raised in a world where appearances are always deceiving.

She’s petite, with olive skin and dirty blonde hair that falls in soft waves past her shoulders. Her dress is modest compared to the other women here—a simple champagne-colored sheath that complements rather than announces. Pretty, but understated. The kind of beauty that doesn’t demand attention.

Interesting. If she’s here, her family either has money or she has powerful connections. But either way, why dress so plain compared to everyone else?

I meet her gaze. Her eyes are warm brown and gentle but shadowed with a nervousness that makes her seem perpetually on the verge of apologizing for something. She carries herself with a certain cautious grace, like someone who’s been taught to take up as little space as possible.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Bianca says, her voice barely carrying over the ambient noise of the ballroom. She extends her hand and there’s a delicate white dove pendant hanging from a chain around her wrist.

I shake her hand and she averts her gaze after only a moment of eye contact. Shy, or hiding something? In this world, the distinction matters.

“Is your family part of the Consortium?” I ask.

She shifts her weight, one hand moving to touch the pendant at her wrist in what appears to be an unconscious gesture. “Oh, no. I mean, not yet. But my husband is. I mean…” Her voice drops slightly, a blush coloring her cheeks. “His family belongs.”

I nod, wondering which of these powerful men has claimed her. Does she understand what she’s walking into? Has anyone told her how this world consumes soft things, grinding them down until they’re either broken or hardened beyond recognition?

Not my business, I remind myself. And if I end up killing one of her new family members, also not my business.

New members join the Consortium all the time, pulled into its gravity by love or ambition or necessity.

She’ll learn soon enough, just like I did.

Some lessons can only be taught through experience.

Eleanora turns to Bianca. “Oh my god, do you remember that woman we saw at the pier last week? Well…”

I watch as Eleanora and Bianca slip into their own little world, talking about stuff they experienced together.

I feel a miserable ache inside me as I watch how quickly and easily they’ve become friends.

While I’ve been submerged in blood and tragedy, Eleanora has been building connections and meeting new people to fill the void I’ve created with my absence.

I should be happy for her—grateful, even, that she’s found someone who appears genuinely kind and supportive.

Instead, I feel a childish pang of jealousy. The distance between Eleanora and me suddenly seems like a canyon, measured in all the small moments I’ve missed.

It feels like everyone in my life is slipping away, some physically and others emotionally.

My eyes drift automatically to Julian across the room.

He’s engaged in conversation with a silver-haired man whose expensive watch catches the light, but his attention isn’t truly there.

It’s fixed on me, that piercing blue gaze cutting through the crowd.

Even with the bruising on his face, even with the swelling distorting his features, the message in his eyes is clear: Mine .

God, I feel sick. I tear my gaze away, trying to focus on Bianca and Eleanora again even though they really aren’t talking to me.

They start chatting about an upcoming exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum, along with Eleanora’s latest fashion obsession—scarves. I contribute just enough to appear engaged while my eyes continue scanning the room, searching for Valentine.

Please be here.

Finally, I spot him near one of the ice sculptures, his tall frame unmistakable even from this distance. Relief floods through me, a momentary break from the dread that’s been creeping in.

“Sorry,” I interrupt whatever Eleanora is saying about next season’s color palette. “I have to go talk with someone.”

Eleanora gives me a hug. “Okay, but come back? I miss you.”

I squeeze her hand, grateful. “I miss you too.” I give Bianca a polite smile and then weave through the crowd.

Valentine spots me and waits near the sculpture, his dark suit and rigid posture marking him as different from the socialites around him.

When I reach him, his arms envelop me with surprising tenderness, the embrace brief but grounding.

For a moment, I allow myself to sink into the closest thing to fatherly comfort I’ve known, inhaling that coffee scent I’ve missed so much.

I didn’t realize just how much I’ve needed to see him until tears start pooling in my eyes.

“How are you?” he asks softly. His gaze sweeps over me, trying to discern my condition with the precision of someone used to evaluating things for damage.

While dabbing at my eyes, I consider my answer.

How much does Valentine know? Julian has likely been keeping him occupied with Consortium business, preventing any opportunity for rescue or even communication.

He probably doesn’t know how much Julian and Lady Harrow are tormenting me.

And the circles beneath Valentine’s eyes show he’s probably exhausted from working long hours.

I won’t add to his burden with the full weight of my suffering. “I’m… surviving,” I say, the words hollow but true enough.

I glance over my shoulder, confirming Julian’s attention is momentarily diverted before lowering my voice. “Any chance you might get me out?” I sound more desperate than I intended.

Valentine’s expression tightens, lines deepening around his mouth.

“It’s tricky,” he murmurs, leaning closer and pretending to adjust the diamond necklace the maids put on me earlier.

“Julian has guards posted. They’re loyal to him now.

And he hasn’t let me in the penthouse since capturing you.

I was allowed to meet him in his office one time, but that’s it.

He’s not stupid and knows I want to get you out, so he’s being careful.

” A pause, heavy with implication. “But I’m working on it. ”

The confirmation relieves some of the tension in my body, but it sounds like Valentine wouldn’t have been able to access Adrian’s room enough to open the door.

So who did it? I don’t like this mystery.

Someone else is moving pieces in this game—someone with access to the penthouse and the courage to undermine Julian’s authority.

“There’s someone you need to meet,” Valentine continues. “Do it casually. Julian’s watching. ”

His eyes flick meaningfully toward the caviar table, where a man stands awkwardly apart from the elegant predators circling the food.

Everything about him screams outsider—from his oversized suit that bunches at the shoulders to the way he clutches his champagne flute like it might shatter in his grip.

His light blond hair is messy, like a nest, from hours of nervous fingers running through it.

He’s handsome, though, in an understated way.

“Gideon,” Valentine says, voice barely audible. “My contact. The hacker who’s helped with your… projects. He knows who you are.”

My pulse quickens. The invisible man who has been erasing security footage and removing all traces of my presence at DeMarco’s, Whitman’s, and Victoria’s deaths.

“Why now?” I ask.

“I have work to attend to,” Valentine says instead of answering, already beginning to move away. “Just do as I ask. Don’t look suspicious.”

I grab his wrist, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “Wait—” He can’t go yet. He can’t leave me with Julian.

He pauses just long enough to press his lips to my forehead, the gesture achingly paternal. “Have patience,” he whispers against my skin. “It’ll all work out. I promise.”

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the glittering crowd, leaving me with questions that multiply like cancer cells.

Patience? I don’t have that.

In resignation, I spend the next twenty minutes performing an elaborate ‘dance’—accepting a glass of champagne I have no intention of drinking, exchanging empty pleasantries with people I recognize but can’t name, drifting through the room as though I belong here instead of feeling like an exhibit in a particularly twisted museum.

I even find Eleanora again and we talk more, though the conversation flows easier between her and Bianca.