Page 83 of Wicked Salvation

It’s dead silent.

“And the Lockharts,” I add, pivoting my attention to Eden’s father, then her mother—who looks suddenly pale. “Such generous hosts. So eager to lift struggling nobility from the mire. A noble endeavor. Almost philanthropic if you ask me.”

My gaze snaps back to Eden.

Her trembling lips are parted. Her breathing is shallow.

She’s doing her best to hold it together—but my speech is going to push her over the edge, whether she likes it or not. I let the pause stretch.

Just as it’s about to become excruciating, I continue.

“It’s rare, you know…to find a man so dedicated to love that he would ransack what’s left of his deceased mother’s heirlooms to finance an elaborate proposal. Diamonds, I believe? From the last of Evadne Peregrine-Ashford’s collection?”

There are audible gasps.

Disbelief fills the room.

“That,” I say, with mock reverence, “is devotion. That is sacrifice. That is desperation, dressed in its finest tuxedo and paraded like a victory.”

Silas moves.

But he can only take a single step forward before Eden’s father catches his arms. His fingers press into his, firm and controlling.

The tears start rolling down Eden’s face as she watches me.

I see her rage.

I see her shame.

But worse than either, I see her longing.

I smile coldly.

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” I say, my voice like silk stretched over broken glass. “May your marriage endure longer than your bank accounts.” I raise my glass of champagne.

A few mischievous members of the crowd raise their own—I catch the eyes of Alexander and Alizé Duke, who seem to be enjoying this more than they should—but other than that, the tension could be cut with a knife.

I down my glass of champagne and step down, throwing the mic to the floor.

The MC stumbles to pick it up as he fumbles for words. He stares at me as if I’ve gutted a man on stage. It’s a pity they didn’t know that was my first choice—Silas’ live execution. But I doubt that would have had the effect I want.

But this?

This is irreparable.

No amount of damage control can fix this.

I walk through the chaos I created, untouched. The air around me quivers. The entire room is fractured. Nobody knows what to do, what to say—if they should even say or do something. As I pass Eden, I don’t touch her.

I don’t need to.

Her silence is a confession.

Her stillness, a scream.

Let them choke on the blood.

XVIII