Page 15 of Whispers of Ruin

It is him.Hewaswatching me.

I take a step forward, but before I can say anything, he’s gone. The motorcycle speeds off into the night, leaving only the echo of its engine and the icy realization sinking into my bones.

By the time we finally pull up to the gala, I am practically clawing at the door to get out. The air inside the limo feels suffocating, thick with Julian’s petulant silence.

He spent the entire drive brooding, furious that I did not finish what he so desperately wanted. As if that were my fault. As if I could have possibly ignored the way my entire body locked up the secondheappeared.

The event is held at a mansion so extravagant it looks like something out of a Hollywood fever dream. Towering white columns stretch toward the night sky, framing an entrance flanked by golden fountains that shimmer under soft, ambient lighting. Flowers spill from massive, ornate pots, their fragrance mixing with the crisp evening air. It is a scene designed to impress, to dazzle. Inside, the opulence only intensifies.

The moment we step through the doors, a server appears with a tray of champagne. I snatch a glass and swallow it in one go, the chilled bubbled liquid burning as it rushes down my throat.

The server’s lips press into a disapproving line, her eyes hovering just a second too long. Like I care. Try sitting in a car while your boyfriend sulks like a child because your stalkernearly caused a crash just to stop him from finishing getting blown. You would chug your drink too, sweetheart.

I take the time to secure my mask, adjusting it until it fits just right. I have to admit, I finally understand the allure—the sense of anonymity, the quiet power it brings. It feels like an armor, a barrier shielding me from wandering eyes and hidden intentions. There is something peculiar about it, something that makes me stand taller.

I glance at Julian beside me, with a gleaming white half-mask, reminiscent of the Phantom of the Opera. The scowl he has been wearing since we arrived disappears the second a distinguished man approaches—a top executive from the company Julian has been bending over backward to impress.

“Ah, Mr. Miller! Your home is absolutely gorgeous!” Julian exclaims, slipping effortlessly into charming mode.

The man’s smile is practiced, polite. When his attention lands on me, a flicker of intrigue appears. He takes my hand, bringing it to his lips with ease.

“Not nearly as gorgeous as your wife, Julian. Now, this—” his eyes sweep over me, staring just long enough to make my skin prickle—“this is a true work of art, Beckett.”

Heat floods my face, my blush no doubt rivaling the deep crimson of my dress. I force a gracious smile, my voice steady despite the constricting pressure in my chest.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Miller. Your home is truly remarkable.”

He still hasn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he strengthens his hold, keeping me close.

“For you, my dear, it’s Simon. And had I known a vision like you existed, I would have extended an invitation much, much sooner.”

With a slow, purposeful wink, he presses one last persistent kiss to my hand before finally releasing me. Julian does not seem the least bit fazed, as if this kind of exchange is nothing out of the ordinary. Honestly, I’m not surprised. Sometimes, I get the unsettling feeling that if offering me up could secure his coveted position, he would not hesitate.

I know I am being dramatic—but then again, am I?

Before I can dwell on it, two more men join our little circle. One of them has a woman on his arm, a girl so young the age gap alone could make heads turn in outrage. She leans in, her perfume sickly sweet, her lips barely moving as she whispers in my ear.

“I’d start drinking if I were you.”

Her words brush against me, leaving a faint chill in their wake. I turn slightly, catching the wary glint in her eyes before she hides it with a fake smile.

What is that supposed to mean?

I do not get the chance to ask. The men launch into a conversation about market trends and investment strategies—one I have absolutely no interest in—but the woman beside me doesn’t move away. She keeps her glass close to her mouth, and I notice she barely drinks.

Julian, oblivious or simply indifferent, is already deep in discussion with Simon and the others, nodding along andlaughing. Meanwhile, the girl turns her head slightly, her focus flickering between them before settling back on me.

“You’re new to these, aren’t you?” she murmurs, her tone laced with something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Pity, maybe?

I straighten my shoulders, unwilling to let her see any hint of hesitation.

“No,” I lie smoothly. “…Why?”

She exhales a soft chuckle, swirling the champagne in her glass. “No reason,” she says, but there is something knowing in her smirk.

She leans in again, her voice lower this time. “Just… don’t let them get you alone.”

A shiver dances down my spine. I force out a laugh, pretending I did not hear the warning beneath her words, but I can feel my fingers clawing around the stem of my glass.

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