Page 68 of Shattered by Grace (The Locke Empire Duet #1)

Chapter Fifty-Seven

A s the car pulled up to the estate, Victoria found herself momentarily breathless.

The mansion loomed above the landscape, its old-world elegance dripping in decadence.

Twisting ivy clung to the stone facade, wrapping around the grand columns like nature itself was trying to reclaim the estate.

Golden light spilled from massive arched windows, casting elongated shadows across the manicured gardens.

Fountains bubbled softly in the distance, their sound barely audible over the quiet hum of luxury cars pulling into the drive.

Everything about this place whispered wealth, power, and the kind of secrets that never saw the light of day.

The air carried a crisp edge, the scent of roses mingling with aged whiskey and expensive cigars, remnants of the past lingering in the bones of the estate.

Guests in elegant gowns and perfectly tailored suits moved toward the entrance, masks concealing their identities, adding an edge of intrigue.

Lace, velvet, and shimmering fabrics swept across the stone steps, conversations hushed, laughter spilling in soft, indulgent waves.

Inside the car, Victoria exhaled slowly, shifting slightly in her seat before discreetly adjusting her shapewear.

For something designed to sculpt perfection, it sure felt like it was trying to crush the life out of me.

If this thing rolled down mid-evening, she’d have two choices. Make a mad dash to the bathroom or let the compression war win.

Shaking off the thought, she smoothed a hand over her gown, forcing composure to the surface. But as soon as she lifted her gaze, her stomach tightened for an entirely different reason.

The errand boy stepped forward, dutifully opening her door, his hand outstretched to help her.

He was young, barely out of his teens, his crisp black suit slightly too big for his lanky frame.

But it wasn’t his nervous energy that caught her attention, it was the way his eyes darted past her, widening slightly before he quickly looked down.

A slow, deliberate heat crawling up her spine, seeped beneath her skin.

She didn’t need to look to know.

Tristan was near.

Her fingers barely brushed against the errand boy’s hand when a shadow eclipsed the space beside the car. The poor guy stiffened, swallowing hard as he took a cautious step back. Victoria finally lifted her gaze.

Oh, hot damn.

At the top of the grand staircase, Tristan stood like he owned the night itself.

The glow from the chandeliers bathed him in gold, casting deep shadows across the sharp angles of his face.

His suit was tailored to perfection, dark and commanding, the black mask obscuring part of his features only making him more dangerous and devastating.

Between his fingers, he twisted a single red rose.

But it was the way he watched her that set her skin ablaze. Slow. Intentional. Like he was already peeling her apart, layer by layer, with nothing but a look.

Tristan descended the staircase, each step unhurried, controlled.

The errand boy cleared his throat, stepping aside with a rushed bow. “M-Mr. Locke,” he stammered before disappearing as if his life depended on it.

Tristan didn’t spare him a glance. His attention, razor-sharp and unwavering, was locked on her.

His voice, smooth as sin. “Come to me, love.”

Victoria swallowed, fire curling beneath her skin. She should say something, anything, but words felt useless in the face of him.

He reached for her hand, his touch warm and possessive. His thumb brushed over her pulse point as he lifted her fingers to his lips. He didn’t just kiss her hand, he lingered, his breath a wicked promise against her skin.

Heat licked down her spine, pooling deep in her stomach.

The second their skin met, his fingers curled around hers, firm, unyielding. With a slow, deliberate motion, he brought the rose up, brushing the petals against her jaw, his smirk dark and knowing.

Tristan twirled the flower between his fingers before holding it out to her.

“Did you miss me, love?”

Her breath hitched as she took the flower, their fingers brushing, the heat of his touch branding her.

His grip tightened, drawing her closer. His lips ghosted over her knuckles, his voice low and deliberate.

“Tell me, did thinking about me all day drive you fucking mad, like it did me?” His eyes burned into hers.

“Because now, Victoria?” His gaze lifted, pinning her in place, his voice a velvet rasp that made her heart stutter.

“Now, I want to be every breath you take, every glance you steal, and every goddamn heartbeat that reminds you you’re mine. ”

Victoria’s breath hitched, but she barely had time to process the words before his hand tightened around hers. He guided her up the stairs with slow, measured steps, his hand still firmly around her waist, pulling her close, making her feel the weight of every gaze upon them.

As they ascended, the flashes of cameras started. The air pressed down on her like a weight she hadn’t prepared for. The clicks and flashes were relentless, each one immortalizing this moment. Her, standing beside Tristan Locke.

Her stomach tightened.

Her whole life, she had been running from the Locke family, from the name that had stolen everything from her.

And now, here she was, standing in front of the world, captured in every frame as if she belonged at his side.

Even though they didn’t know her as Victoria Grace, only Grace Scarlett, she did.

And it made her want to run, to disappear before the walls closed in.

She took a step back, her body moving on instinct.

But Tristan didn’t allow it.

Before she could create any distance, his grip tightened, his fingers splaying across her waist as he tugged her closer. The motion was subtle, almost unnoticeable to the onlookers, but to her, it was everything. A silent demand. A warning.

“Going somewhere, love?” he murmured against her ear, his voice smooth and teasing but laced with something deeper. Possession.

Before she could even form a response, his lips brushed against the delicate skin of her neck in a feather-light kiss.

A shock of heat bolted down her spine.

Fuck .

The cameras kept flashing, the attention suffocating, but Tristan anchored her in place. And despite everything screaming at her to run, a part of her—the part she didn’t want to acknowledge—felt something dangerously close to safe in his hold.

“Mr. Locke! Care to answer a question?” one of the reporters behind the velvet rope called out.

“Who’s your date?” a tall woman with dark hair asked, her voice cutting through the chaos.

The shouting only grew louder, overlapping demands for Tristan to look this way, pose that way, acknowledge their presence. Of course, they wanted answers. The Lockes owned the hotel, his family controlled this entire world. It was expected.

But Victoria wasn’t.

Her pulse pounded as the enormity of the moment crashed down on her.

Who am I to him, really?