Page 3 of The Final Contract

“No,” I mouth, almost imperceptibly. My chin dips just enough to give him the signal.Not now. Not here.

Too many cameras. Too many eyes. This is not my stage, not my announcement. The Maestro is still speaking, and if Killian storms the ballroom on my word, everything erupts into chaos.

Besides, my phantom has never been this direct before. Never brazen. Just…present. Lurking.

Applause surges, and a child—barely ten, dressed like a cherub from the chorus—approaches with a bouquet of roses.

Red. Beautiful. Perfect.

She holds them up to me with both hands, and the crowd claps again, charmed by the gesture. I smile, take them gently into the crook of my arm, and give her a gentle bow.

I don’t hear the Maestro’s final words. I don’t even register the applause rising like a wave.

The double doors swing open. The night explodes in light as fireworks scream against the skyline.

And then—something warm trickles over my hand. Wet.

I glance down.

Scarlet smears my palms, staining the pale satin of my gown.

My heart lurches into my throat.

The roses aren’t red.

They’re white.

Each one dipped in crimson paint, still dripping like blood, soaking into my skin.

The crowd gasps at the fireworks. I can’t hear them.

All I can hear is the rush of static in my ears.

Because this isn’t a gift.

It’s a message.

The crowd swallows me.

Bodies press in on every side, bumping my arms, brushing the roses that drip red down my hands. I can’t move, can’t breathe. My chest tightens, panic clawing up my throat. Masks glitter and shift, gold flashing everywhere I look.

Which one is him?

I turn too quickly, skirts tangling, vision blurring—until I see him.

Ten feet away. Perfectly still. A tuxedo. A gold phantom mask.

And the eyes.

One brown. One glacial blue.

They lock on mine. And he smiles. Slow. Sinister. Certain.

My stomach drops, fear carving me hollow. For years he’s been a ghost, a nuisance. But this…this is the first time I believe he intends to harm me.

Then the roses are torn from my grip. An arm bands around my waist, hauling me backward against a wall of muscle.

I don’t need to see him to know it’s Killian. The sheer force of him radiates through every inch of contact—unyielding and dangerous.