I’m still gripping the balcony railing, watching Poppy settle back into her lounge chair like she didn’t just face down a century-old predator. Like she didn’t just tell my oldest enemy that his revenge was his own choice. Like she didn’t just choose me—knowing everything, fearing nothing.
The bridesmaids swarm around her. Someone hands her a fresh glass of champagne. Violet says something that makes her laugh—that bright, surprised sound I’ve come to treasure.
She’s laughing. After everything that just happened, she’s laughing.
I’ve watched empires crumble. I’ve seen revolutions rise and fall. I’ve stood in the ashes of everything I thought I knew, and rebuilt from nothing.
None of it prepared me for this woman.
“You’re going to crack the stone if you keep gripping it like that,” Nathaniel observes from behind me.
I look down. He’s right—hairline fractures spider out from beneath my fingers. I release the railing and step back.
“She handled it,” I say. The words feel inadequate. “She more than handled it.”
“She eviscerated him.” Nathaniel is standing next to me. “Told him his revenge didn’t make any sense. That his anger over Katya’s death was his own fault. At a pool party. In a swimsuit.” He shakes his head, something like admiration in his voice. “Where did you find this woman?”
“A dating app.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
He laughs. “The universe has a sense of humor after all.”
“Marcus.” I patch through to him direct. “Are Lucas or Bastine with you?”
“Lucas is. Bastine is stationed outside of Damien’s room.”
“Does Bastine know if Damien is in his room?”
“He should be. I had both Lucas and Bastine escort him there.”
“Got it. Have Lucas take over for you. I’d like to coordinate with the group while Poppy’s at the pool.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“We need to plan for tomorrow,” I tell Nathaniel.
“The reception.”
“If we’re lucky, it won’t come to that. But we need to be ready.”
Before I walk inside, I spot Poppy gesturing animatedly at something, her free hand cutting through the air. She’s telling a story. The bridesmaids are leaning in, captivated.
She draws people to her. It’s her gift—connecting authentically. Even now, surrounded by women she barely knows, she makes them feel seen.
I understand the impulse. She makes me feel seen, too.
“Everyone.” I trigger the group channel. “Marcus is en route to the suite. We’re convening to discuss tomorrow. Elena, Sofia—maintain your positions at the pool.”
“Understood.” Elena’s voice comes through crisp and clear. “The girl is safe. Currently entertaining the bridesmaids with a story about a disastrous cooking attempt.”
“She set fire to pasta once,” I say. “She’s very proud of it.”
“She should be. It takes talent to burn something submerged in water.”
“That it does,” I almost smile. Despite everything,
