Page 26 of Royal Deception (Royals of the Underworld #2)

CLARY

T he gala is a dream, like something out of a fairytale. The twinkling lights, the way the chandeliers glisten like stars, the soft melody of the orchestra—it all makes me feel like I’ve stepped into another world. But nothing compares to dancing with Rory.

Being in his arms, feeling the steady, commanding way he moves, the warmth of his hand on my back—it’s intoxicating. For those few minutes, I forget about everything else. It’s just us moving together, his touch grounding me in a way nothing else can.

And then Callie sweeps in like a storm in her dazzling sapphire gown, taking Rory’s hand and pulling him away with a charming smile and a teasing remark about needing to thank him properly for his security work.

I watch as he goes, ever the gentleman, leading her onto the dance floor while my own arms feel suddenly, achingly empty.

I know it’s not personal. I know it’s just duty, just business. But I can’t help but feel the sting of frustration. Every time I have him to myself, something pulls him away—work, responsibilities, duty.

I let out a slow breath, my fingers brushing over the smooth crystal pendant resting against my collarbone. This means something. What we have means something.

Even still, the weight of it all presses down on me, and I slip away from the ballroom, weaving through the guests toward the bathrooms. I just need a moment. A moment to breathe, to clear my head.

Inside, the quiet is a welcome relief from the music and chatter. I step up to the sink, turning on the water and splashing coolness onto my face, letting it chase away the tightness in my chest. My hands grip the edge of the counter as I stare at my reflection.

What am I doing? Where do I fit in Rory’s life, really?

I press my fingers against my temples, willing the unease away. Maybe I just need to let go of the idea of having Rory all to myself tonight. He has responsibilities, and I know that.

The bathroom door swings open, and I instinctively still at the sound of heels clicking against the tile.

“Honestly, Callie, you should go for it,” Miranda’s voice carries through the room, light and teasing. “You and Rory would be perfect together.”

I tense.

Callie laughs, the sound warm and amused. “Oh, come on. He’s barely looked at me twice that way. If anything, he seems more interested in his assistant.”

My heart clenches.

Miranda scoffs. “Clary? Please. She’s got bigger dreams than settling with her boss.”

I suck in a sharp breath, my fingers curling against the counter.

I know Miranda doesn’t mean anything cruel by it.

She’s never known about my feelings for Rory—never known about us.

To her, I’m just a driven, ambitious woman who’s never once mentioned wanting a relationship, let alone one with my employer.

She’s probably just looking out for me in the way she thinks is best.

But it still stings.

I swallow down the lump in my throat and force myself to breathe evenly. There’s no reason to let this get to me.

But their words linger as I wait for the two of them to leave the ladies’ room.

Would Callie be a better fit for Rory? The thought worms its way in, unwelcome and insistent. She’s sophisticated, graceful, charming, and poised—everything I’m not. And Rory does seem interested in her, always quick with a compliment, always admiring how effortlessly she fits into this world.

And me? I’m just his assistant. His pet.

I touch the cool metal of my collar, my fingers tracing the smooth edges of the pendant. He gave this to me, locked it around my throat like a claim. But what if that’s all it is? A claim, nothing more?

Rory has always been clear about what he wants. He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t make promises. But Callie… Someone like her… She could stand beside him in ways I never could. She could be the one on his arm at events like this, the one who seamlessly belongs at his side.

And me?

Would I always be kept in the shadows? Always just a mistress on the side while he built a life with someone else?

The bathroom door swings open again, and I listen as their voices fade into the sounds of the gala. Only when I’m sure they’re gone do I let out a slow breath, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

What am I even doing?

Before I can dwell on it any longer, I turn on my heel and slip out of the bathroom, determined to push the doubts aside.

The hum of conversation and soft strains of music fill the ballroom as I step back inside, my eyes instinctively scanning the crowd for Rory.

But before I can spot him, a figure moves toward me.

A man.

Long overcoat. Black cap pulled low over his face.

He walks with purpose, cutting through the clusters of guests like he belongs. My breath catches, unease prickling at the back of my neck. He doesn’t belong.

Before I can step away, he’s in front of me. His arm presses against mine, and then…

He shoves something into my hands.

I stumble back a step, my fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of the object. A briefcase.

My pulse spikes. I lift my head to ask, What the hell? But he’s already gone, vanishing into the crowd like smoke.

The blood in my veins turns ice-cold.

I look down at the briefcase, my grip suddenly unsure. My mind jumps to the worst possible conclusion, but I force myself to stay calm.

No. No. This could be something innocent. Someone’s lost belongings. A mistake.

But deep down, I know better.

Panic surges in my chest as my gaze darts frantically around the ballroom, searching for the only person who can make this feel safe.

Rory.

I spot him across the room, his sharp eyes already locked onto me. He must see something in my face—my tension, my fear—because he’s moving toward me without hesitation, cutting through the crowd like a knife.

The second he reaches me, his gaze drops to the briefcase in my hands. His expression shifts, darkening.

“Where did you get that?” His voice is sharp, edged with something dangerous.

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening on the handle. “A man—he just—he shoved it at me and walked away.” My voice shakes, but I push through it. “He was wearing a black cap, a long coat. I didn’t recognize him. He disappeared before I could say anything.”

Rory’s jaw clenches as he steps closer, his body blocking mine from view. He reaches for the case, but then his eyes narrow.

There’s something taped to the side.

A note.

His hand moves quickly, yanking it free. He unfolds the paper, his expression unreadable as his eyes scan the words.

And then…

A flicker of something cold and lethal flashes across his face.

I don’t even need to see the note to know.

This is very, very bad.

Rory unfolds the note with precise, clipped movements, his eyes scanning the words.

His grip tightens, knuckles going white.

For Veridex. We don’t appreciate being ignored. Next time, it won’t be so polite.

A muscle in his jaw tics. His shoulders go rigid, tension coiling through him like a wire pulled too tightly.

But while he’s reading, my fingers move on their own and I flip the latches of the briefcase. The lid lifts with a soft click, revealing a neatly stacked pile of documents stamped with Veridex’s logo. Beside them, a sleek USB drive gleams under the dim lighting.

And nestled among it all?—

A single black rose, the petals dusted with something fine and crimson.

My stomach twists. My breath stutters in my throat.

The briefcase is ripped from my hands.

Rory’s grip is iron-tight as he snaps the lid shut, his body turning into a wall between me and the case. “What the fuck were you thinking?” His voice is a low, furious whisper, his eyes blazing as he leans in close. “You don’t take something like this, Clary.”

“I—” My voice falters. “I didn’t… I didn’t have a choice! He just shoved it at me, and then he was gone.”

“Then you drop it.” His tone is razor-sharp, cutting through the panic still curling in my chest. “You don’t just hold onto it like some naive—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before lowering his voice again. “Christ, Clary. Do you even know what this could mean?”

I do.

Even if I don’t know all the details, I know enough to recognize this for what it is.

A threat.

A warning.

And Rory knows it, too.

Because there’s something dark in his expression now, something ruthless.

And I have the sinking feeling that whatever comes next, it won’t be polite either.

Onstage, Callie commands the room with effortless grace. The soft glow of the chandeliers casts a halo around her as she speaks, her voice clear and confident. The crowd watches her with rapt attention.

Rory turns his head, mouth slightly parted as he watches her onstage, commanding the room effortlessly. My stomach twists when he doesn’t even spare me a glance as he shoves the briefcase into Lucky’s hands and turns to me, his jaw tight.

“You’ve been a distraction all night,” he mutters, his voice low and clipped. “I need to focus on Callie right now.”

The words land like a slap.

A distraction.

Not his distraction. Just a distraction.

I open my mouth, but whatever protest I might’ve had dies on my tongue. The set of his shoulders, the sharpness in his gaze—it’s all cold, distant.

This isn’t a conversation. It’s a dismissal.

He turns away before I can say a word.

I swallow down the ache in my throat and force myself to move, slipping through the crowd until I reach the far side of the room.

Finn stands near the wall, his arms crossed, his eyes locked on Callie as she continues her speech.

For a moment, I just stand there beside him, trying to push down the frustration twisting inside me.

“This isn’t exactly the magical night I was hoping for,” I murmur.

Finn’s gaze flickers toward me, something knowing in his expression.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with something almost bitter. “Sometimes, expectations don’t meet reality.”

His attention shifts back to the stage.

And I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, the sadness flickering across his face as he watches her.

The cab ride home is silent, the city lights blurring past the window as I stare at nothing.

Rory didn’t even look at me when he told me to leave. Didn’t offer to take me home. It’s like he didn’t care at all.

By the time I step into the apartment, the air feels thick, suffocating. My dress is too tight, the fabric clinging to me like a second skin I can’t escape. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as I stumble toward the bedroom, my fingers digging into the bodice.

I can’t get it off fast enough.

The zipper sticks, the layers tangling around my legs. Panic claws at my throat, and with a sharp rip, I tear the gown apart, sending delicate fabric pooling onto the floor.

But it’s not enough.

I reach for my neck, fingers fumbling against the cool metal of the eternity collar. The weight of it, the meaning of it—something I once cherished—now feels unbearable.

I grab at the nightstand, yanking open drawers, searching. Where is it, where is it?

The key is missing.

My chest tightens. A sob chokes out of me as I lunge for the bedroom door, wrapping the chain of the collar around the doorknob with shaking hands.

I brace my feet against the hardwood, grab the chain with both hands, and pull.

Nothing.

I grit my teeth, hot tears blurring my vision, and yank again with all my strength.

The collar snaps. Metal clatters against the floor as I stumble back, gasping, hands flying to my throat.

It’s gone.

The weight is gone.

But the ache inside me—the raw, gaping wound Rory left behind—that is still there.

A strangled sob rips from my chest, and I sink to my knees, pressing my forehead to the floor as the dam finally breaks.

And I cry. For everything I wanted. For everything I thought we could be.

For the part of me that still—stupidly—wants him anyway.