Page 54 of The Cruel Heir
He crossed, sliding a knuckle under my chin. “I smell power,” he said. Then, quieter: “Marry me.”
“On my terms,” I answered, before fear could muzzle me.
He arched a brow. “Name them.”
“My accounts unfrozen. My school credentials reinstated. Public acknowledgment; full sunlight, no shadows. And when I say stop, you stop.”
A heartbeat. Two. Empires weigh faster than hearts. He nodded, once. “Done.”
We stood in a hush, two predators recasting rules. I don’t trust him, never will, but power isn’t trust; it’s leverage. Outside, dawn set marble aglow, and inside, I felt steel kindle behind my ribs.
Ownership cuts both ways, king.
And I will learn how to bleed you with it.
STERLING
One Week Later
Zara thought she was free,because our parents were breathing down our necks, after my mother walked in on us in the bathroom. Like that was going to protect her from me. They weren’t going to be in our way much longer. She had school too, and mistakenly thought I would leave her be. Thought she could slip away into lectures, and textbooks, and a quiet, normal life that no longer belonged to her. Not without my name. Not without my ring.
I had been patient. I had let her return to her classes, let her think she could slip into routine. Let her have this final week of freedom, before I took it from her completely.
That patience ended today.
Frankie had already placed the order. It was handcrafted in Vienna. Dark maple, gold-lined pegs, even her initials burned into the tailpiece. It wasn’t just wood and strings. It was a resurrection, of the girl I’d broken, of the sound I used to hate, only because it made her unreachable. I used to say I hated hermusic, but that was a lie. I hated that it moved me. I hated that it made her something bigger than me.
Now? I wanted that sound back. Even if I had to drag it out of her fingers, one trembling note at a time. I wanted her to play only for me.
The violin was more than a gift. It was a confession I’d never say out loud.
I destroyed her music. Now I was giving it back. Not because I deserved forgiveness, but because she deserved the sound of herself again.
My car idled outside Saint Bipal’s grand administrative building, its towering stone pillars a façade of legacy and untouchable wealth. I stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of my crisp black shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the ink curling over my forearms. I didn’t bother buttoning my suit jacket. This wasn’t a negotiation.
Students milled around, their privileged little lives untouched by the world I ruled. They whispered as I passed, eyes flicking toward me, sensing danger, power. None of them mattered. Only one person in this entire university did.
Then I saw her.
Zara stood near the steps of the library, shifting awkwardly as she adjusted the hem of her uniform. The Saint Bipal crest was embroidered neatly on the blazer she wore, but the buttons strained against the fullness of her chest, the pregnancy rounding her body in a way her tight skirt, and fitted shirt, could no longer hide. Her pleated skirt, meant to be a modest length, rode scandalously high over her thick thighs, evidence that nothing in her closet fit her properly anymore. She had tried to make adjustments, but the fabric clung to her like a second skin, leaving every curve on display.
Her hair was styled in waist-length, thick, tightly coiled curls, parted to the side, cascading down her back, like a halo of darksilk. Even pinned at the crown with gold accents, a few stubborn ringlets framed her face, bouncing with every frustrated movement, as she attempted to discreetly pull the fabric of her shirt down. I recognized the stubborn tilt of her head, the way her full lips pursed as she exhaled sharply, trying to make herself smaller, despite the attention she naturally commanded.
It didn’t work.
Zara had always been stunning, but now? She was impossible to ignore.
Her shoulders stiffened the moment she sensed me. She turned, her eyes locking onto mine, and I watched as realization dawned, followed by dread.
“No,” she whispered, clutching her book tighter. “Not here.”
A slow smile tugged at my lips. “Here. Now.”
She took a step back, eyes darting to the hallway, like she was weighing her odds. But it was too late. Before she could run, I closed the distance, my hand curling around her wrist. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath my fingers.
“You’re coming with me,” I said, voice low and final.
“Sterling, I have class,” she yanked back, her voice low, panicked, desperate.
