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I look down at her, dropping my voice. “Stay close to me tonight, and if anyone asks, you’re with me.”

She glances up at me, a teasing glint returning to her eyes despite her nerves.

“I thought that was already established.”

“It was,” I agree, my fingers tightening subtly around hers as we walk towards the entrance. “I just wanted to say it out loud.”

28

Ellise

Iknew Julian came from money. I did not know he came from this.

This is something else entirely.

The massive double doors to the Thorne house are held open by two silent attendants in pristine white gloves, and the stifling warmth of the foyer hits us before we have fully crossed the threshold. The air inside is thick, heavy, and laced with the sweet scent of expensive lilies.

The sound follows immediately. Hundreds of voices echo through the space like a frantic symphony against the high ceilings.

Beside me, Julian’s posture instantly shifts. The relaxed guy that I’m used to completely vanishes, replaced by a rigid version of him that looks like he’s carved from stone. His jaw is tight, his chin held at a proud and defensive angle, but the heavy warmth of his fingers laced through mine doesn’t slacken for a single second. If anything, his grip tightens, pulling me closer to his side.

We are officially in his world now.

The floor is black and white marble, laid in a chessboard pattern it looks like it was designed to be looked down at from above. A grand staircase curves upward from the center of the space—the kind that only exists in fairy tales. And here I am at the bottom of it in a thrifted thirty dollar dress. I am definitely not the fairy tale princess here.

Suspended from the high ceiling at the top of the stairs hangs a chandelier of impossible scale. It looks like a fallen star that decided to stop mid-fall, casting a brilliant light over everything below.

I have seen rooms like this on social media and read about them in glossy romances from the bookstore, but I never thought I’d actually stand in one. The sheer wealth is suffocating.

Standing here, the social divide between us has never felt so real.

Suddenly, I feel the steady pressure of Julian’s fingers tightening around mine. I squeeze back silently, a private signal between us.

It’s okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.

“Julian.”

The voice comes from the mezzanine above like something dropped from a significant height with a deliberate, lethal aim.

The man, who I assume is Alistair Thorne, stands at the top of the staircase, and is exactly what I should have expected, yet somehow so much worse than that. He looks like he is in his late fifties, wearing an immaculate tuxedo that fits him with precision. I can tell that he is a man that considers his appearance a statement about his position in the world. Holding a crystal flute of champagne, he radiates a cold, pompous arrogance. He has a sharp and calculated smile playing on his lips.

He does not look at me. His eyes are fixed entirely on Julian, and they are icy in a way that has nothing to do with the winter temperature outside.

He descends the staircase slowly, with no urgency. It's almost predatory, and clear that he is a man who has never had to rush towards anything, because everything simply lands in front of him. He pauses on the final step, putting him at eye level with Julian, and proceeds to say absolutely nothing. He just stares. He lets the silence stretch long enough to assert his dominance.

What a dick.

Only then does his gaze move, sweeping across me with a quick, comprehensive assessment. He tracks the slit in my dress, the curve at my waist, the subtle shimmer of the fake stones at my ears, and then he moves back to Julian without so much as a flicker of expression. He looks straight through me as if I am completely transparent.

Definitely a monumental dick.

“You’re late.”

“I’m here,” Julian says.

His voice is flat and unhurried, which I am beginning to understand isn’t composure. It is the highly practiced, defensive numbness of someone who has spent too long learning how not to react to this specific person. There is zero warmth in his voice or his eyes.

“Father,” Julian drawls, his fingers tightening around mine as he pulls me slightly closer to him. “I believe you haven’t met Ellise Vance.”