The metal was cold in my hand. Heavier than it should have been. Final, somehow.
A crack began to spread in my chest. It built quietly, like glass slowly splintering. The ache had my fingers closing around my watch, holding it too tightly. I didn’t care if the jagged edges bit into my palm. Let it. Maybe if it hurt enough, I wouldn’t feel quite so hollow inside.
A quiet presence formed behind me, one that I instantly recognized as spectral. They rested a hand on my shoulder, and I closed my eyes for a moment, absurdly grateful for the comfort of a ghost.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
There was no reply, but the pressure remained at my side.
“I’ll be all right,” I said softly.
A soft pat.
I slipped the broken watch into my pocket, though gods only knew why. It was useless now. But the thought of leaving it behind was worse. Almost like admitting defeat.
Someone had definitely broken in, walked through my home, and destroyed my things—what little I had left. But why? To scare me? To remind me that even now, after everything, they could still hurt me?
Well, I would show them exactly how wrong they were.
And I knew exactly who was responsible.
There was only one bastard in this town arrogant enough to orchestrate something like this. One cold-blooded, power-drunk aristocrat who couldn’t handle being told no.
I’d rejected him this afternoon—in public, no less—and now, he was responding like a spoiled, calculating tyrant by destroying my home. My things.
He wanted me gone.
He couldn’t buy me, so now he’d strip me of what little scraps I had left and wait for me to crawl out of town, humiliated and hollowed.
Well. Message received. But he’d miscalculated—gravely.
Because I wouldn’t run. Not from men like him.
I turned on my heel and stormed down the stairs. The ghosts quieted as I passed. Even Bernard’s chandelier stilled.
The front door swung open of its own accord, and I stormed out into the night with only one thing on my mind.
War.
Lucien St. Germain wanted to play games?
Fine.
But he’d soon learn that I refused to lose. It wouldn’t be me standing over ruins at the end of this. It would be him. Because I was going to set fire to his little empire—and make sure everyone had a front row ticket to watch.
Chapter
Twelve
ISADORA
The Crimson Veil loomed ahead, opulent and ostentatious. A monument to his ego, draped in glamour and lit by floating lanterns. Were this any other night, I might’ve found myself impressed by it all. But tonight, it soured my mood all the more.
Why?
Because Lucien the Bastard—yes, I was calling him that now—had everything. Power, prestige, an entire town’s worth of sycophants wrapped around his perfectly manicured finger. Everything I’d once had. Except, he refused to share so much as a sliver of success with anyone else.
Well, it was time to see how his kingdom held up when someone dared to push back.
