Page 42 of Capricorn

I cross the threshold of the grand ballroom and take in the sea of solemn faces as a splinter of grief lodges deep. Calla lilies and winter roses hang thick in the air, mingling with the scent of melted wax. Chairs creak as guests shift in their seats, the occasional sniffle or muffled sob rising like static.

At the podium, a man I don’t recognize speaks, his white hair glowing silver-blue beneath the lights. He drones on about loss, legacy, and sacrifice, but the words are soulless vibrations buzzing in my ears.

For the entirety of his rehearsed speech, I fix my gaze on the eight-foot photographs at the front of the room. Sebastian’s azure eyes stare back, impossibly alive, his crooked grin spearing me in the heart.

A direct hit.

Next to him, Tatum leans casually against a stone pillar. Both are captured mid-laugh, frozen in black frames—snapshots of moments that will never happen again.

Mr. Stone rises from his seat, and my spine stiffens. The room stills as he walks to the podium with practiced poise, but there’s something staged in the way he carries himself. He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice trembles in a display of grief.

“Sebastian embraced his legacy.” He pauses, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he swipes a finger across the dry plane of his cheek. “I’ll always be proud of the man he was.”

He goes on, spinning a story of love and pride between father and son.

Every bit of it fictional.

And then, like a ripple through time, his voice collides with a memory…

Give him the queen’s punishment. She’ll suffer enough when he breaks.

My mind flashes back to the day Sebastian took fifty lashes for our stolen kiss in the gazebo. The man who dares to call himself his father said those words as if they meant nothing.

A chasm splits open inside me, and my lungs seize. I jump to my feet, everything around me melting to gray, and barely register Liam standing.

Or Oliver telling him to let me go.

I’m already shoving through the heavy French doors, with Astrid not far behind. The winter air bites through my thin black dress, but I welcome the sting.

Snow drifts down in lazy spirals as my feet carry me across the grounds until the white-pillared structure emerges.

Our gazebo.

I climb the stairs, and my knees buckle, hitting the stone floor in the middle of the painted zodiac wheel. A primal sob claws its way out of my throat as I fold inward, unable to hold myself up any longer.

I’m back at the beginning of this pain, as if my grief never left—as if it only played dead before knocking me down again.

“Miss Van Buren.” Astrid’s voice is unusually soft as she kneels beside me. “Please come inside.”

“I can’t.”

She rests a hand on my shoulder, concern flooding her usually stern features. “You’ll freeze out here.”

“I said no!” I jerk away from her touch, and she recoils, feet unsteady. Her mask of rigid composure drops into place again, but not before I catch a glimpse of the woman underneath the guardian.

I should apologize for yelling, but the pain slashing through my chest is too great. So I ignore her and curl into the fetal position, tears burning like acid down my frozen cheeks.

Astrid steps out of view, quietly giving up, and it isn’t long before the crunch of heavy footfalls arrive.

Liam appears first.

Then Oliver.

Vance, Ford, and Hugo follow, and the five of them form a protective barrier around me.

Oliver steps in front of Liam, crouching at my side, and shrugs off his suit jacket.

“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping the hot grief from my face. “I couldn’t stay in there.”

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