ONE
Ella
Justice … yeah, helooksdangerous. Jet-black hair, broad shoulders stretching the seams of his suit, gaze constantly scanning the room. I feel a little sorry that I tried to kill his brother not too long ago. Thorn survived—barely—and the only reason I’m still breathing is because he’d bend reality to keep Alana safe, and she loves me. My death would hurt her, so I get to stay alive.
Which is a good thing, because there are more guns in this opulent pavilion than actual people.
I tear my gaze away from Justice and take a sip of champagne. The expensive brew is a crisp, floral, bubbly delight that tickles the roof of my mouth as I try to count how many bodyguards are lurking around the place. I give up after twenty. This is ridiculous.
Then I purposefully avoid looking at Justice and glance over at Alana. My best friend. The newly crowned Mrs. Thorn Beathach.
Her beauty practically fills the whole room, like lightrefracting off a diamond. She has sparkling eyes, thick, dark hair cascading down her back, and cheekbones that are sharp yet feminine. She’s glowing. Literally. Maybe it’s the chandeliers catching her earrings, or the champagne catching up to me. Could go either way.
Her man is danger in a suit with a scar across his face that’s a clear warning sign.
They’re a striking couple: beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Like a rose with steel thorns and a body count.
She holds up her phone and makes a post, probably on her family’s social media platform, Aquarius Social. She’s the biggest influencer in the country, with a platform that allows people to share emotions. Considering she’s radiating happiness, she’s spreading a lot of love right now.
Soft music winds through the air that sounds like delicate and expensive strings. My shoulders roll back, irritated by a persistent, uncomfortable itch down my spine. My quite bitchy stepmother must be nearby. And, bingo. There she is with the stepsisters, loitering near the buffet where most of the bachelors are filling their plates. My stepmother and sisters are just pretending to pick at things. Performance dining.
I shake my head.
“You really could smile a little,” Rosalie says beside me, her voice warm and dry with amusement.
I half turn to take her in. Rosalie wears a deep sapphire gown that hugs her like it was sewn on by angels. The color makes the impossible blue of her eyes even more shocking. Ethereal, but in a way that says she could still stab you with a heel if it came to it.
“I am smiling,” I tell her.
We match tonight in the same gown, same shade. Except I’m many inches shorter, and mine doesn’t quite flow as gracefully. But my blonde hair is curled just right around my shoulders, and my makeup’s on point. I feel acceptable. Like I might belong here. If I squint. “I can’t believe you’re here talking to me all by yourself.”
Rosalie rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly.”
I scan the room again. Glittering gowns brush the marble floors, and tuxedos prowl past like sleek predators. Laughter hums just under the music. I catch sight of Alexei Sokolov by the bar. He’s partially turned, but his gaze flicks in our direction. Direct. Calculating. Possessive.
“Oh, there he is,” I murmur. “I’m surprised he let you out of his sight for long.”
Rosalie laughs, soft but rich. “He is a mite overprotective.” Right. Like the leader of the Russian mob is justa bitprotective.
“How many guns does he have on him, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
I glance toward the exits, from doorway to doorway, cataloging shadows and broad shoulders. I count at least two mafia guys at each exit. The Russian half are Alexei’s, and the Irish ones are Thorn’s. Then a few more are scattered throughout.
Yeah. Glitter, music, silk, and enough firepower to start a small war. Just another Saturday night.
Alexei and Thorn own two of the most powerful social media companies in the world and also run mafia-like organizations with enough reach to make FBI agents cry into their keyboards. Charming, really. Alana’s family owns the third out of four major companies.
Technically, I should own the fourth.Should.But my stepmother’s still clinging to it with her clawed fingers and Botox-smoothed smugness. That’s temporary, though. The clock’s ticking, and she doesn’t even hear it. Unless she finally succeeds in getting me killed, and then she wins.
I can’t let that happen.
A couple dances past us, the woman’s golden gown billowing out and catching innocent ankles like a weaponized fabric storm. Strings hum from somewhere above like music’s just floating down from the cosmos, or a luxury sound system pretending to be heaven.
I’m ready to get out of the gown and into my yoga pants. Even though I grew up an heiress in one of the wealthiest families of all time, my stepmother shipped me off to a boarding school in the middle of nowhere, with no fancy celebrations or even cake. I’m more comfortable by myself in comfy clothes with a computer in front of me. But I know my role, so I smile for anybody looking or filming. “I’m still surprised Thorn agreed to have the wedding reception on Alana’s father’s property.” The pavilion’s gorgeous, sure, but Thorn doesn’t exactly screamlet’s compromise. The man radiates control-freak energy in his sleep.
Rosalie snatches a champagne flute from a passing tray and takes a healthy sip. “Do you really think he’d have people over to his place?” she asks. “The guy has a moat. A real one. Like, with water and probably crocodiles. He doesn’t want strangers anywhere near it.”
