Page 84 of The Cruel Heir
He extended a hand, no command this time, only a plea. I set my glass aside, and placed my palm in his, feeling the world lock back into its ruined orbit.
When we moved, I tasted the tremor in his shoulder, the way his fingers shook where they splayed against the small of my back. Power had never looked so breakable. We turned beneath chandeliers gauzed in candlelight, and for the first time the spotlight felt less like a noose.
“I tried to stay away,” I admitted, voice barely above the strings. “I rented a place that didn’t echo with ghosts. It still felt empty.”
“I filled rooms with tribute, and they sounded like coffins,” he answered. “Seventy-two hours without your voice, and the estate started to rot.”
“Maybe we’re both poisoned.”
“Then we’ll be poisonous together.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear. “Choose me, Zara. I’ll spend a lifetime proving the cage can grow gardens.”
The music bled into silence. Applause swelled. He bowed over my hand as if it were a sacrament, and the audience a church full of doubters. For a fragile heartbeat, hope felt possible.
Silence stretched between us.
And then, from the far end of the gallery, the music shifted. The orchestra began to play. A lyrical jazz tune. Familiar.
Sterling looked down at me. “Shall we keep going?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
The crowd watched, enraptured, as he led me around on the dance floor. Every movement was deliberate, a display of undeniable control. My dress, red as blood, pooled around me with every turn, the silk whispering secrets only we could hear. Sterling’s touch was firm, his grip just shy of painful, as he spun me in perfect time to the music.
People parted, their eyes devouring us, some in admiration, others in envy. They had never seen someone like me before, a woman who had stepped from the shadows, and into the arms of the most dangerous man in the city.
“Do you feel it?” he murmured, his lips barely brushing my ear.
I swallowed, my pulse hammering against my skin. "Feel what?"
"The power," he said, his voice a deep rumble. "The way they look at you. The way they look at us. They know you are untouchable now."
I let my gaze wander across the sea of faces. Some were frozen in awe, others whispering behind delicate gloved hands. I caught sight of a woman in a red gown, someone who had likely scoffed at my name just months ago, watching me with barely concealed resentment. She knew. They all did.
I exhaled, allowing myself to sink into Sterling’s embrace, into the weight of what this night meant. "I see it."
"Good," he said, his grip tightening as he pulled me impossibly closer. "Let them watch. Let them understand."
And so we danced, in the eye of a storm we had yet to unleash, in a world that now belonged to us.
As the final notes of the waltz drifted into silence, I felt Sterling’s fingers trail along my spine. "A perfect performance," he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. "Now, let’s enjoy the show."
I should’ve known something was wrong, the moment Chadwick showed up.
He wasn’t supposed to be invited.
And yet, there he was. In a designer tux, drink in hand, face slick with mockery.
“Zara,” he said as he approached, his breath stinking of whiskey, and rot. “You always did know how to wear red.”
I stiffened. “Get away from me.”
He smirked, his eyes glinting with a madness I recognized all too well. “You’re really going to act like you didn’t love it? That night?”
“You raped me,” I said, steady. “And I hope you rot.”
His nostrils flared. “You wanted it,” he sneered. “You’re nothing but a fat whore, pretending to be royalty. Sterling will throw you away like I did.”
I saw the flash of silver before I registered the knife.
