Page 53 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

She doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, she takes my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes. She lightly strokes my lip before kissing them softly and, for now, that’s enough.

***

When I enter Oliver Devereaux’s gallery, I feel it—the shift in energy, the way the atmosphere is charged . The Devereaux Gallery is a temple of indulgence, where wealth and power are displayed as boldly as the paintings on the walls. Sleek black marble floors gleam under the golden glow of chandeliers, each crystal casting refracted light over a crowd that reeks of money and deception. The air buzzes with carefully constructed conversations, hushed tones masking greed and ulterior motives.

This isn’t about art. It never is.

The guests—elite collectors, old-money families, corrupt politicians, and men like me—are here for something more. For power plays. For hushed wars fought through handshakes, glances, and strategically placed bids. They sip champagne, admire the curated collection, but their true focus lies elsewhere. Negotiations are whispered behind glasses of expensive scotch, alliances are reaffirmed with a brush of fingers against silk ties.

Waiters in crisp white shirts weave through the room, trays laden with caviar, oysters, and foie gras. Glasses clink in quiet toasts, but the real game is played in the unspoken words.

I’m used to this. The scrutiny, the attention, the way conversations hush when I pass. People always want something from me—a favor, an alliance, a way to get closer to the fire without getting burned. I register their hungry stares, but I don’t slow down for them. I didn’t come here for whispered deals.

I came here to make a statement.

Isabella is on my arm, wrapped in the red silk dress I chose for her—an intended choice—one that made me lose my mind afew minutes ago. She is striking, bold, and impossible to ignore. The color makes her stand out in a sea of muted elegance, demanding attention even when she wishes to remain invisible. She walks with measured grace, her chin tilted just high enough to feign confidence, but I can feel the rigidness in her body. She knows these people aren’t like the ones she’s used to. They are predators, watching, waiting, assessing.

She doesn’t belong here. But tonight, she will act like she does.

I feel their burning gazes, the way men’s eyes linger too long. Some attempt discretion, their eyes looking away when I catch them, while others don’t bother hiding their interest. My grip tightens around her waist, a silent warning.

She’s mine.

She doesn’t pull away, but I sense her growing awareness. The way she subtly presses closer to me, fingers curling against the fabric of my sleeve, anchoring herself in the chaos.

"You’re doing fine. Just be confident. That’s all these people respect."

She exhales softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t belong here."

I smirk. "Neither do half the people in this room. They just know how to pretend."

Her gaze lifts to me, uncertainty warring with resolve. I see the frustration in her eyes—she doesn’t like not knowing the rules, not having control. But control isn’t given in a place like this. It’s taken.

"Ah, Castellano." A smooth, familiar voice slides into the air, laced with amusement. "You’ve certainly stirred the room tonight."

I turn my head slightly, finding Oliver Devereaux standing nearby, his usual smirk firmly in place.

He’s dressed in a deep navy suit, perfectly tailored to his lean frame, the picture of polished arrogance. But his true mastery isn’t in art—it’s in people. He’s a curator of more than just paintings; he collects power, influence, and the secrets of men who don’t even realize they’ve been played.

He lifts his glass slightly in my direction, a silent toast to the game already in motion.

"People love a good show," I reply, letting my smirk mirror his.

Oliver’s gaze flicks to Isabella, assessing. "And what a show it is."

She stiffens slightly under his scrutiny, but I feel her force herself to hold his stare. Good girl.

"She’s more than that," I say smoothly, my tone leaving no room for argument.

Oliver chuckles but doesn’t push. He enjoys the game, but he knows better than to test me.

I guide Isabella deeper into the room, my eyes already scanning for the ghost I know is here. The gallery is its own kind of battlefield, and every movement, every glance, is a calculated maneuver. The music swirls around us—low, sultry strings mixed with smooth jazz, playing just loud enough to drape afalse sense of ease over the gathering. But beneath the refined elegance, the undercurrents of power and deception churn.

Then, the shift happens.

A ripple moves through the crowd, subtle but undeniable. Conversations taper off, laughter dims, and bodies instinctively part to clear a path. It’s an unspoken law of nature—when the king arrives, the court adjusts accordingly.

I don’t turn immediately. I make him wait.

---