Chapter 4

The silence in the ballroom was heavy enough to crush bone.

Vespera’s hands were still planted on the armrests of Cyprian Hale’s chair, trapping him in a cage of red silk and desperation. She could feel the heat radiating off him—a furnace burning beneath the icy exterior of his tuxedo.

Cyprian didn't blink. His storm-grey eyes, flecked with shards of silver, bored into hers. He didn't look at her cleavage, or her legs, or the dress that was scandalizing half the city. He looked straight at the intelligence behind her mismatched eyes.

"Lost, little bird?" he asked softly. His voice was a low rumble, audible only to her. "The golden cage is that way. I think your owner is calling for you."

"I don't have an owner," Vespera whispered, leaning in closer until she could smell the oak and smoke of his whiskey. "And I'm not lost. I'm defecting."

Cyprian’s lips quirked. It wasn't a smile. It was the look of a wolf finding a wounded rabbit in its den.

"Defecting? To me?" He swirled his glass, the amber liquid coating the sides. "You’re Lysander Thorne’s shadow. His muse. His... pet. Why would I trust a word that comes out of your mouth?"

"Because you need a wife," Vespera said.

The glass stopped moving.

She had hit the target.

In her past life, the news hadn't broken until a month later: The Hale Corporation board was trying to oust Cyprian. They claimed his "bachelor lifestyle" and "erratic behavior" made him a liability. A clause in his grandfather’s trust required him to be married by his thirtieth birthday to retain controlling interest.

His thirtieth birthday was in three days.

"You have a board meeting on Friday," Vespera pressed, dropping her voice to a breath. "They're going to vote you out. Unless you walk in with a ring on your finger."

Cyprian’s eyes narrowed. The boredom vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp suspicion. His hand moved—blur-fast.

Before Vespera could react, his fingers wrapped around her left wrist. His grip was steel, his thumb pressing hard against her pulse point.

"Who told you that?" he hissed. "That information is sealed. Is Thorne wiretapping me? Is this a setup?"

Vespera didn't pull away. She leaned into his grip, letting him feel the frantic, rabbit-fast rhythm of her heart.

"Lysander doesn't know," she said. "No one knows. Just you. And me."

"And what do you get out of this charity, Miss Vane?" Cyprian asked, his thumb tracing the racing vein under her skin. "Money? I have plenty, but I don't pay for damaged goods."

"I don't want your money," Vespera said, her voice trembling with the adrenaline of the gamble. "I want your protection. And I want a weapon."

"A weapon?"

"I want to destroy the Thorne family," Vespera vowed. "I want to burn their legacy to the ground. You hate them. I hate them. Let’s be monsters together."

Cyprian stared at her. For a second, the mask slipped. She saw something raw in his eyes—recognition? Hunger?

On stage, Lysander’s patience snapped. The microphone screeched as he grabbed it.

"Vespera!" His voice boomed through the speakers, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Get away from him! Have you lost your mind? That man is a criminal!"

The crowd murmured. Security guards began to move from the perimeter, heading toward the "Pariah's Corner."

"Tick tock, Mr. Hale," Vespera whispered. "Security is coming. You can throw me to the wolves, or you can take the board seat and the smartest woman in this room."

Cyprian looked at the approaching guards. Then he looked back at Vespera.

"You claim you’re not a spy," he murmured. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Burn the bridge," he said. "Make it so you can never go back to him."

Vespera didn't hesitate.

She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, bunching the expensive fabric in her fists. She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at Lysander.

She pulled Cyprian down.

He didn't resist, but he didn't help. He sat there, a stone statue, waiting to see if she would dare.

Vespera crashed her lips against his.

It wasn't a soft kiss. It wasn't a romantic movie moment. It was a collision. It tasted of whiskey, aggression, and desperate survival.

The ballroom gasped—a collective intake of air that sucked the oxygen out of the room.

For a heartbeat, Cyprian was rigid.

Then, Vespera felt the shift.

His hand left her wrist and slid up to the back of her neck, his large fingers tangling in her dyed-black hair. He didn't push her away. He gripped her, holding her in place, deepening the kiss with a possessive hunger that made her knees buckle.

He kissed her like he wanted to devour the secret she was hiding.

On stage, Lysander screamed something unintelligible. The sound of a glass shattering echoed from the VIP table.

Vespera broke the kiss, breathless, her lips swollen and stinging. She stared at Cyprian, her chest heaving.

"Bridge burned," she gasped.

Cyprian stared at her. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the grey. He ran a thumb over his lower lip, tasting her lipstick.

"You taste like trouble," he growled.

"I am."

The security guards were ten feet away now. "Miss Vane," the lead guard barked, reaching for her arm. "Mr. Thorne requests your presence immediately."

Vespera flinched, instinctively bracing for the manhandling.

But the guard never touched her.

Cyprian Hale moved.

He stood up, unfolding his frame like a awakening titan. He was massive—six-foot-three of broad muscle and menacing grace. He towered over Vespera, over the guard, over the entire room.

He placed one hand flat on the guard's chest and shoved. The guard stumbled back three steps, wheezing.

"Don't touch her," Cyprian said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the ballroom with the force of a thunderclap.

"She’s Mr. Thorne’s fiancée," the guard stammered, reaching for his baton.

"Not anymore," Cyprian said.

He turned to Vespera. His eyes swept over her one last time—the red dress, the defiant chin, the trembling hands she was trying to hide.

He reached out and wrapped a heavy, possessive arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. The heat of him soaked through the thin silk of her dress, branding her.

He looked up at the stage, locking eyes with a furious, red-faced Lysander.

Cyprian smiled. It was a terrifying, wolfish grin that promised violence.

"Go find another ghostwriter, Thorne," Cyprian shouted, his voice ringing with triumph. "This one is mine."