Page 76 of Wicked Salvation
Silas turns to me, giving me one of those smiles that endeared me to him the first time I saw him on social media before my first day at Augustine. He takes my hand. “Don’t worry, my love. You’re the most beautiful woman here. Just hold on to me.” He kisses me briefly. “I’m here for you, I promise.”
A promise from a wolf is still a promise.
When our car pulls up to the entrance, it’s like the whole world goes still.
People wait.
Not guests. Not friends.
If anything, they’re witnesses to all of this.
Silas helps me from the car. Cameras flash like lightning. I raise my chin, my body suddenly remembering the years of training my mother put me through.
“Smile,” he whispers as we ascend the marble steps.
So I do.
We pose for pictures, men with cameras call my name.Future Duchessis tossed around in the crowd. I smile and wave, and do everything the way I should. The way I was taught.
But something inside me withers with every step.
The ballroom is a living jewel box—everything aglow, everything gleaming. Gold filigree dances along the ceilings, candles flicker in wall sconces, and crystal chandeliers throw fractured light across the marble floors. Tables clothed in lace and delicate silk, elaborate white flower bouquets and golden chargers. Chairs that glisten under the sparkling lights.
I hold on to Silas’ arm so tight I can feel his muscles beneath his well-tailored suit. The room is teeming with London’s elite. I catch glimpses of the women my mother has afternoon tea with, my fathers’ counterparts—they’re all looking at us. Their expressions are unreadable, but that’s how high society is. They’re probably envious more than anything. My stomach feels light, like it’s about to fall down to my feet.
The crowd parts as soon as we enter.
We’re announced from the stage—the host is Count Wessex, my father’s closest friend. He’s always been nice to me, so even though I didn’tchoosehim to host my engagement party, I don’t mind. Even though my father paid for this entire party, he’s not the type to be the center of attention like this.
“The Duke and Duchess-to-be!”
That’s the cue.
The crowd descends upon us like moths to a flame. Compliments are showered. My ring is examined—there are oohs and aahs—and my lineage is dissected. I play the role with terrifying ease. My entire body has gone cold, it seems to be moving on its own.
My voice doesn’t sound like my own.
Silas thrives. Handsome and composed, he offers smiles like gifts, shaking hands, accepting praise like a king crowned early. My mother beams from her corner, surrounded by wives she once envied and now outshines.
This party is straight out of everyone’s dreams.
Well, everyone but me.
Soon, the ballroom grows too loud. The gawking has died down, leaving me with a small window of reprieve. It’s too hot in here, too full of eyes and questions I don’t really want to answer. I’m already tired, and the party’s just getting started.
The champagne barely helps.
I excuse myself after my fourth glass of champagne and slip down the corridor past the kitchens, toward the guest powder room tucked near the back of the house. A quiet place.
The door is slightly ajar.
Soft perfume coils into the hallway. Jasmine and vetiver, something expensive. I push the door open and step inside, taking a deep breath.
The bathroom is dimly lit, the sconces casting soft golden halos over the marble walls. I close the door behind me with a quiet snick, grateful for the momentary silence. The ballroom had been all sharp laughter and clinking crystal, my mother’s proud smile and Silas’ charismatic charm stitched to my shoulder like embroidery I couldn’t peel off.
I move toward the farthest sink and press my palms against the cool marble.
A deep breath steadies me.
