Page 4

Juliette’s portrait hung next to mine, at her utmost request. It made sense, seeing as she idolized me.

Before my mother had commissioned my sweet baby sister’s portrait, she would sit and study them for hours at a time, noting every imperfection, pointing out flaws with a smirk that only the youngest sibling could wear.

Hers and mine were nearly identical in composition—same tilt of the jaw, same disdainful glint in the eyes.

She’d always claimed it was the family resemblance, though I suspected she’d requested the painter mimic mine, just to irritate me.

Mine, of course, hung next to our father’s. A symbol of legacy and expectation. Personally, I loathed my image. My aristocratic nose and sharp jawline looked…fake. Juliette disagreed. She claimed I looked just as pompous in oil as I did in person.

Lovely little vampiress, my sister. It was her hobby to irk people.

I stepped inside the salon and immediately spotted my mother.

Seraphina sat in a high-backed armchair, one she’d recently upholstered in blood-red velvet.

She wore her typical affair—a smoke gray gown streaked with white high heels, and more jewelry than most people owned.

Her golden-blonde hair was impeccable and her makeup flawless.

Appearances matter, Lucien , she would say to me when I was a child. It was her favorite mantra, and one she never let me forget.

“Ah, Lucien,” she said. “Finally.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled, Mother,” I said drolly. “People might think you missed me.”

Her ice-blue eyes flicked over me, assessing. Always assessing. “You look tired. Have you been feeding and sleeping properly?”

I sighed. “If I had a thorn for every time you’ve asked me that?—”

“You’d have a crown by now,” she cut in, finishing my father’s favorite sentence. “Which you should, by the way. You’re the face of the St. Germain legacy. Try to look the part, dear.”

“I don’t need to look the part. I am the part,” I said, slipping my hands into my pockets.

“Appearances—”

“Matter,” I said, finishing her sentence. “Yes, I know.” Time to change the topic. “The Veil is thriving, in case you were wondering.”

She hummed appreciatively. “Yes, that lounge of yours has become quite the proving ground. I hope you aren’t letting just anyone in, dear. We mustn’t mingle with commoners.”

“I’ve carefully cultivated my customer base,” I assured her.

“My lounge sees more business deals than the council chambers these days. The witches send their daughters to be seen. Even the wolves have demanded entrance. I’ve allowed in a few, to show that I am a benevolent owner.

But I’m careful about who I permit past my doors. ”

“I trained you well,” my mother said, pride warming her voice. She swirled the bloodwine in her glass, then took another sip, careful not to spill so much as a drop. “But you need to tread carefully, too. The Veil is power, yes. But power attracts attention. Jealousy. Envy. Rivals.”

Yes, I remembered my childhood sermons well.

I grinned, flashing my fangs. “I welcome competition, if only so I can crush it. Gives me something to do.”

Seraphina chuckled. “You’ve certainly inherited your father’s ruthlessness.”

“And speaking of ruthlessness…” The voice drifted in from the doorway—cool, composed, and unmistakably my father’s.

Ambrose St. Germain strode into the room at his own pace, the way only men with absolute authority ever could.

He wore a simple, unembellished black suit.

Understated. Perfectly tailored. No lapel pin or cufflinks that sparkled.

The stark opposite of my mother who tried to outshine herself every day.

Seraphina didn’t rise. She didn’t have to. Instead, she reached out a hand and simply waited for her husband to take it, which he did. He gave her fingers a squeeze, then continued to the sideboard across the room and poured himself a measure of bloodwine.

Glass in hand, he turned and faced me. “We have a new arrival in town.”

I quirked a brow. A new arrival? Seemed the clock tower was glowing purple for good reason.

“A Laurent ,” my mother said, her expectant gaze landing on me.

Laurent… Why did I know that name? I scanned my memory, sifting through all the lineages my mother had made me memorize during my studies. Finally, awareness dawned. “As in the New Orleans Laurents?”

Seraphina’s smile sharpened. “Mmm. The very same. And not just any Laurent—Isadora. The daughter.”

“Didn’t she just—” I paused, the rest of the gossip slotting into place. “Ah. That Laurent.”

Ambrose sipped his bloodwine. “Word is she arrived alone. Bought that rotting bar off Hank Corvus.”

“She bought that place?” I laughed, short and sharp. “She won’t last long there.”

“She has nothing and nowhere else to go,” my mother commented while inspecting her lethally sharp black nails. “She broke her mate bond in front of half of New Orleans after catching the degenerate with his pants around his ankles and fangs buried in some debutante’s inner thigh?—”

“Thank you for that image, Mother,” I muttered, pinching my brow. But secretly, I was impressed.

Few, if any, broke a mate bond. Doing so was dangerous and quite painful from what I’d heard.

It also took a great deal of courage to sever such an intimate bond, let alone in front of society.

Most wouldn’t risk humiliation. Even when betrayed, they clung to the bond—out of pride, fear, or some misguided sense of destiny.

But she’d severed hers, and in front of witnesses, no less.

It spoke to her character and sense of self-worth.

Ambrose made a low sound—almost a laugh, though he rarely wasted breath on anything as common as amusement. “The fallout made quite the ripple. The social houses in New Orleans are still talking about it.”

Seraphina nodded, swirling her glass. “And now their precious little exile has landed here. Alone. Disgraced. And, if the whispers are true, determined to rebuild that horrendous business.”

Ambrose took another measured sip, then set his glass down with a quiet click.

“And that,” he said, “we cannot allow to happen.”

I straightened slightly. “You’re worried about a disgraced heiress with a bankrupt surname and a haunted bar?”

“I’m concerned,” he said, voice low and precise, “about the spectacle she brings with her. The scandal. The whispers. The attention. We’ve worked centuries to cultivate our place in this town. One Laurent chasing redemption could undo it all.”

I highly doubted that.

Seraphina nodded. “Our town works because it’s balanced and comfortable. The status quo never changes. The townspeople know what to expect. But this girl?”

“She’ll draw attention,” Ambrose butted in. “And more than that—she’ll draw sympathy. Pity. If she manages to get that bar up and running, people will flock to her. Because she’s a sad case with a moving cause.”

Ah, there it was. The real reason they were bringing this to my attention.

“If people flock to her, she’ll become competition for The Veil,” I finished, mouth curving without humor. “And we can’t have that.”

“No,” Ambrose agreed, his tone final. “We can’t.”

He crossed the room slowly and stopped in front of me.

“She has a difficult road to traverse. It isn’t as simple as buying a business and opening the doors, as you’re well aware.

She’ll need permits, licensing, renovations.

All that requires clearance from the council.

” My father sighed. “It will come down to a vote, and when it does, I can assure the St. Germains vote against her.”

“But the Ravenspells?” Seraphina murmured, arching a brow. “They have a fondness for lost causes. They might find her…charming.”

“And the Wolfes would vote in her favor simply to piss us off,” I muttered.

Ambrose gave a single nod. “Exactly. Which means we cannot assume the vote will fall in our favor. If she rallies support, if she plays the underdog well enough, she might win. And if she does?—”

“She opens that bar,” I said, jaw tightening. “And every social climber, misfit, and novelty-seeker goes running to her instead of The Veil.” And I lose my leverage. My power.

Seraphina studied me over the rim of her glass. “Are you prepared to let that happen?”

Never. It’d taken me years to cultivate The Crimson Veil into what it now was. I refused to risk my power base, all because of a disgraced heiress.

I stared into the flames a moment longer, then smiled—slow, sharp, and full of teeth. “Perhaps it’s time I meet this Miss Laurent. And explain to her in great detail why it might be better if she leaves town.”