Page 80 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

Congratulations, Willow—We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Rhode Island School of Design.

My pulse races as I read the words again, just to make sure I’m not imagining it. Accepted. To RISD. I got in. Fucking hell, I got in. My heart beats rapidly in my chest and I want to scream, to jump around and call Jasmine, but all I can do is stare at the screen, the weight of it settling over me like a dream I wasn’t sure would come true.

I bite my lip, glancing over at Damien, who’s still sitting beside me. His attention is focused on me now, the silence between us filled with something unspoken. I hand him the phone, my fingers trembling just slightly. “Good night,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Night, trouble.”

25

WILLOW

The next morning arrives with a quiet stillness, sunlight streaming through the windows of the safe house, casting soft golden hues across the walls. I stir reluctantly, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. The events of yesterday feel like a distant haze, though the ache in my chest is a sharp reminder that it’s all too real.

A soft knock sounds at the door, followed by Vincent’s voice. “Rise and shine, Princess. We’ve got plans.”

I groan, pulling the blanket over my head. “Plans? It’s too early for plans.”

The door creaks open, and I peek out to see Vincent leaning against the frame, arms crossed and his trademark smirk firmly in place. “I’m not above carrying you out of here,” he warns, though the amusement in his tone tells me he’d enjoy it far too much.

“Five minutes,” I mumble, rolling out of bed with a sigh. My body protests, still sore and drained, but Vincent doesn’t give me much choice.

“Come on, Princess.” He nudges me towards the bathroom.

“Wait!” I protest. “Where’s Damien?”

“Hockey practice. Now move it, beautiful.” Vincent commands, playfully smacking my ass.

By the time I shuffle downstairs, I’ve thrown on a pair of soft leggings and an oversized hoodie, my hair in a messy bun. It’s the kind of outfit that screams comfort and minimal effort. I’m too tired to care, especially when Vincent flashes me an approving look.

“Nice and cozy,” he teases, grabbing my wrist to steer me toward the front door.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice still groggy as he ushers me outside.

Vincent opens the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish, his smirk as sharp and confident as ever. “Taking you shopping, Princess. Can’t have you going to prom without a dress, now can we?”

I freeze, halfway into the car, my head tilting as his words register. “Prom?”

Leaning against the car, Cast looks like he’s stepped out of a magazine ad, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. He crosses his arms, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. “You didn’t think we’d forget, did you? Prom’s in two days.”

For a moment, I just stand there, staring at them. The nonchalance in their tones is almost infuriating, as if this is all perfectly normal. Prom? In two days? The idea seems so out of place, so impossibly… normal, in the chaos that has become my life.

“You… remembered?” My voice is quieter than I intend, a mix of surprise and something warmer, something softer.

“Of course we did,” Vincent says, leaning against the open car door with a grin. “You think we’d let you miss a chance to be the center of attention? Not a chance, Princess.”

A genuine smile tugs at my lips, unbidden but welcome. Excitement flickers in my chest, spreading quickly. I’ve missed this feeling—something as simple and sweet as the thought of getting dressed up, going out, and pretending for one night that things aren’t so complicated.

“Okay,” I say, climbing into the car, my excitement bubbling over. “But there’s one condition.”

Vincent raises a brow, his smirk faltering for half a second. “A condition? Let’s hear it.”

“I’m getting dressed at my house. I need at least some sense of normalcy,” I say firmly, folding my arms over my chest to emphasize my point.

Cast tilts his head, his grin taking on a mischievous edge. “Your house? Without supervision? Not a chance, Cariña.”

“Supervision?” I scoff. “What do you think I’m going to do—run away? In heels?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Vincent interjects smoothly, leaning against the doorframe now. “Ricardo stays with you, or it’s not happening.”

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