Page 130 of Shattered By Grace

The second their skin met, his fingers curled around hers, firm, unyielding. With a slow, deliberate motion, he brought the rose up, brushing the petals against her jaw, his smirk dark and knowing.

Tristan twirled the flower between his fingers before holding it out to her.

“Did you miss me, love?”

Her breath hitched as she took the flower, their fingers brushing, the heat of his touch branding her.

His grip tightened, drawing her closer. His lips ghosted over her knuckles, his voice low and deliberate.

“Tell me, did thinking about me all day drive you fucking mad, like it did me?” His eyes burned into hers. “Because now, Victoria?” His gaze lifted, pinning her in place, his voice a velvet rasp that made her heart stutter. “Now, I want to be every breath you take, every glance you steal, and every goddamn heartbeat that reminds you you’re mine.”

Victoria’s breath hitched, but she barely had time to process the words before his hand tightened around hers. He guided her up the stairs with slow, measured steps, his hand still firmly around her waist, pulling her close, making her feel the weight of every gaze upon them.

As they ascended, the flashes of cameras started. The air pressed down on her like a weight she hadn’t prepared for. The clicks and flashes were relentless, each one immortalizing this moment. Her, standing beside Tristan Locke.

Her stomach tightened.

Her whole life, she had been running from the Locke family, from the name that had stolen everything from her. And now, here she was, standing in front of the world, captured in every frame as if she belonged at his side. Even though they didn’t know her as Victoria Grace, only Grace Scarlett, she did. And it made her want to run, to disappear before the walls closed in.

She took a step back, her body moving on instinct.

But Tristan didn’t allow it.

Before she could create any distance, his grip tightened, his fingers splaying across her waist as he tugged her closer. The motion was subtle, almost unnoticeable to the onlookers, but to her, it was everything. A silent demand. A warning.

“Going somewhere, love?” he murmured against her ear, his voice smooth and teasing but laced with something deeper. Possession.

Before she could even form a response, his lips brushed against the delicate skin of her neck in a feather-light kiss.

A shock of heat bolted down her spine.

Fuck.

The cameras kept flashing, the attention suffocating, but Tristan anchored her in place. And despite everything screaming at her to run, a part of her—the part she didn’t want toacknowledge—felt something dangerously close to safe in his hold.

“Mr. Locke! Care to answer a question?” one of the reporters behind the velvet rope called out.

“Who’s your date?” a tall woman with dark hair asked, her voice cutting through the chaos.

The shouting only grew louder, overlapping demands for Tristan to look this way, pose that way, acknowledge their presence. Of course, they wanted answers. The Lockes owned the hotel, his family controlled this entire world. It was expected.

But Victoria wasn’t.

Her pulse pounded as the enormity of the moment crashed down on her.

Who am I to him, really?

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Aslow, sultry melody drifted from the string quartet in the corner, the notes curling around the room like smoke, setting a rhythm of whispered promises and dark temptations. The ballroom was breathtaking. Gold-trimmed walls, chandeliers dripping in crystals, and a sea of masked figures moving in a world of excess. But none of it held Victoria’s attention.

Golden light bathed the space in a warm, decadent glow. Chandeliers hung like frozen stars above the crowd, their crystals refracting light over silk-draped tables and towering floral arrangements. The air was thick with the scent of roses, aged whiskey, and something intoxicatingly sweet. Wealth, power, and secrecy.

Victoria stepped inside, her fingers still laced with Tristan’s, a single red rose held delicately in her other hand. The room was stunning, but so was she. Her dress, a bold crimson, hugged her frame like it had been made for her alone. The deep V-cut dipped dangerously low, while the high slit promised a glimpse of bare skin with every step. The silk whispered against her thighs, asecond heartbeat to the rhythm of her heels clicking against the marble floor.

Eyes found her instantly. Conversations dipped into hushed murmurs. Gilded masks concealed identities, but nothing could hide the weight of their curious, sometimes envious and definitely intrigued stares. Some recognized Tristan, some only saw the woman beside him. Either way, they watched.

Tristan didn’t pause. He moved through the space like he owned it, because he did. His family’s name was etched into the very walls of this hotel, in the foundation of this world. And with each step, each whisper that followed them, it was clear: standing beside him was as much a statement as it was a danger.

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