Page 114 of Claiming Pretty

My diamond cuff links refracted the dim light of the chandeliers. My Valentino suit fit like a glove even if it felt like a straitjacket.

And my father’s Sochai ring burned through the flesh of my finger, straight to the bone.

Ty had wanted to be the one to attend the Darkmoor alumni gala, but Ava had quickly brought up the obvious.

“First, you’re supposed to be dead. Second, you have a criminal record for killing your father, a member of the secret society we’re trying to infiltrate…”

It had to be me.

It was only because I loved Ava that I said yes.

Yes, because if I didn’t say yes, then she’d find someother harebrained way of infiltrating the Society. Like using herself as bait.

At least, ifIsaid yes, it wasmylife at risk.Nothers.

I said yes because the faster we took down the Sochai, the quicker she could put all this behind her and we had a chance at being together.

At the edge of the gilded ballroom, I reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it in one go. For courage. The warmth spread through my veins. I reminded myself I was doing this for Ava.

The Darkmoor Alumni Gala was held in the grand ballroom of one of the oldest buildings on campus, a place steeped in history and dripping with ostentation.

The high ceilings loomed above me, their gold-plated moldings gleaming under the light of enormous crystal chandeliers. Low-seated couches, upholstered in rich, faded fabrics from centuries past, dotted the room.

I moved carefully through the crowd, my steps measured, my expression cool. I pretended I belonged among Ireland’s elite—industry titans, political giants, and heirs to fortunes older than the Republic itself.

These were people cloaked in untouchable power, their wealth and influence spanning not just the country but much of Europe.

Among the shifting tides of laughter and clinking glasses, I spotted them—the known members of the Sochai. Their whiskey glasses reflected the chandelier’s glow, their cigars smoldering as they leaned in close to share secrets only the most privileged would ever hear. Predators dressed as gentlemen.

But no matter how carefully I scanned the room, mypulse ticking faster with each passing moment, I couldn’t find who I was looking for.

I passed by the double doors of a smaller side room, a drawing room, velvet green armchairs illuminated beneath a chandelier and a golden harp in a solitary corner.

Gauzy white drapes billowed into the room from a stone terrace and the foggy night. It was empty. But the sound of voices outside caught my attention.

My footsteps were damped by the thick carpet as I crossed the small drawing room.

As I pushed aside the curtains and stepped into the frigid, still air, I noticed a female figure disappearing down the stairs to the garden.

There, leaning against the stone balustrade, was the man I’d been looking for.

An Tiarna Ard.

The High Lord.

Steeling my nerves, I swiped my sweaty palms against my suit pants as I went to stand beside Dean McCarthy as if merely admiring the view.

There was little view, of course. The torches lining the edge of the building did little to cut through the mist which swallowed the gardens.

The weight of his attention pressed on me, subtle but unmistakable, as if he were dissecting me from the corner of his eye.

“You look familiar,” he said, his tone veering from casual to suspicious.

It was my opening, but I forced myself not to rush.

I stood still, holding on to a carefully cultivated air of entitlement and quiet confidence. This wasn’t just aconversation; it was a performance. I gambled on arrogance over deference, knowing the High Lord wouldn’t respect someone that was too quick to simper before him.

The silence stretched until the dean exhaled in mock boredom. “Well, it’s getting cold,” he muttered, pushing away from the stone railing.

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