Chapter 5

The moment Cyprian claimed her, the ballroom detonated.

Camera flashes erupted like stroboscopic lightning, blinding Vespera. The polite murmur of the elite shattered into a roar of questions, accusations, and the frantic tapping of gossip columnists on their phones.

"Move," Cyprian commanded.

He didn't wait for her to agree. He clamped his hand onto her hip—a grip of iron—and propelled her toward the exit. He moved with the unstoppable momentum of a tank, his broad shoulders clearing a path through the stunned crowd.

"Vespera! Get back here!"

The scream tore through the noise. Lysander.

Vespera turned her head. Lysander was shoving his way through the guests, his face a mask of purple rage. The Golden Boy was tarnished, and he looked ready to kill.

"You can't leave with him!" Lysander shrieked, knocking a waiter’s tray of champagne to the floor. Glass shattered. "He’s a monster! Vespera!"

He lunged, his hand reaching for Vespera’s trailing red silk.

He never reached her.

A shadow materialized from the chaos.

Oryn.

Cyprian’s personal shadow was a mountain of a man, dressed in a black suit that strained against his bulk. He didn't speak. He didn't shout. He simply stepped into Lysander’s path like a dropped blast door.

Lysander slammed into Oryn’s chest. It was like running into a concrete pylon. Lysander bounced back, stumbling, his expensive shoes losing traction on the spilled champagne.

"Get out of my way, you mute freak!" Lysander snarled, raising a fist.

Oryn caught the fist. He didn't squeeze. He didn't twist. He just held it, staring down at Lysander with eyes as dead as shark glass.

The crowd gasped. A Thorne, manhandled by a bodyguard?

Oryn leaned down. He didn't whisper a threat. He simply used his free hand to dust an imaginary speck of dirt off Lysander’s lapel. The gesture was patronizing, dismissive, and utterly humiliating.

Then, he shoved.

Lysander went sprawling backward, landing hard on his ass in a puddle of vintage Dom Pérignon.

"Go!" Cyprian growled, shoving Vespera through the service doors.

The cool night air hit her face, smelling of exhaust and freedom. A sleek, armored limousine idled at the curb, its engine purring like a predatory cat.

Oryn appeared a second later, opening the back door.

Cyprian threw Vespera inside. He followed, and the heavy door slammed shut, sealing them in a vacuum of silence.

The noise of the gala, the shouting of Lysander, the sirens in the distance—it all vanished.

The interior of the limo was dark, lit only by strips of blue LED ambient lighting. It smelled of cold leather and the lingering scent of Cyprian’s whiskey.

Vespera pressed herself against the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her adrenaline was crashing, leaving her shaking.

Cyprian sat opposite her. He watched her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

Then, he raised the back of his hand to his mouth.

He wiped the red lipstick—her lipstick—off his lips. He looked at the smear of color on his skin, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed it away until his skin was raw.

The romantic hero vanished. The ruthless businessman appeared.

"Explain," he said. His voice was a low timbre that vibrated through the leather seats. "Now. Before I open this door and toss you out of the moving car."

Vespera swallowed. Her throat was still sore from Lysander’s grip on the balcony—a memory from a timeline that no longer existed, yet felt terrifyingly real.

"Thorne Enterprises is lying to the SEC," Vespera said. Her voice was steady, even if her hands weren't. "Their Q3 earnings report is a fabrication. They’re claiming 20% growth in the Asian sector, but the Shanghai factory has been offline for three months due to a supply chain failure."

Cyprian stared at her. He didn't look impressed. He looked bored.

"Rumors," he said. "Everyone knows Thorne cooks the books. That’s not enough to buy my protection, Vespera."

"It’s not a rumor," Vespera countered, leaning forward. "I know because I wrote the algorithm that hides the losses. I created the shell companies in the Caymans that they use to cycle the debt. 'Project Chimera.' That’s the file name."

Cyprian’s eyes narrowed. The boredom flickered out.

"Project Chimera," he repeated. "I’ve heard whispers of that on the dark web. You’re saying you built it?"

"I built everything," Vespera said, her bitterness leaking into the words. "The predictive models, the automated trading bots, the logistical AI. Lysander can barely open a P*F without help. I was the brain. He was the face."

She tapped her temple. "I have the encryption keys in my head. I have the real ledgers. I can prove fraud, tax evasion, and insider trading."

Cyprian studied her. He looked at the red dress that was scandalous by society standards. He looked at the dyed black hair that was clearly a fresh, desperate attempt to change her identity.

He saw a woman who had walked into a lion's den and slapped the lion.

"Why?" he asked. "You were set to marry him. You were set to be Queen of the City. Why burn it down tonight?"

Vespera looked out the tinted window. The city lights blurred past—the same lights she had fallen past in her death.

"Because he was going to kill me," she whispered.

It wasn't the answer she planned to give. It was the truth.

Cyprian went still.

"Kill you?"

"Not with a gun," she lied quickly, realizing she couldn't explain the time travel. "With a signature. He planned to institutionalize me after the wedding. To take control of my trust fund and lock me away. I found the papers this morning."

A half-truth. But close enough to the spirit of Lysander’s betrayal.

Cyprian leaned back. He tapped his fingers on the leather armrest.

He looked at her reflection in the darkened window. The image was ghostly—a woman in red, superimposed over the passing city.

In the reflection, the "Thornless Rose" tattoo on his neck seemed to hover right next to her cheek.

A rose without thorns. A symbol of beauty that couldn't hurt you. Or perhaps, a symbol of something that had been stripped of its defenses.

He had gotten that tattoo after his sister died. After the anonymous donor—Vespera—had tried to save her. He had vowed to strip the thorns from the world, to destroy the people who preyed on the weak.

And here was Vespera Vane, the architect of his rival’s success, sitting in his car, stripped of her thorns, bleeding from invisible wounds.

She wasn't a spy. A spy wouldn't look that broken around the eyes.

"Project Chimera," Cyprian murmured. "If I have that, I can short Thorne stock into oblivion. I can buy his company for pennies on the dollar."

"Yes," Vespera said. "I give you the keys. You give me the shelter."

"A transactional marriage," he said. "Cold. Efficient."

"Like you," she parried.

Cyprian smirked. It was a dark, dangerous expression that made the air in the car thin.

"You have no idea what I'm like, Vespera. But you're about to find out."

He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. He tapped the screen, the light illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

"Oryn," he said into the device. "Call the lawyer. Wake him up."

Vespera held her breath.

"Tell him to meet us at the Fortress," Cyprian commanded, his eyes locking onto Vespera’s. "And tell him to bring a judge."

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat between them.

"We’re getting married tonight."

Vespera let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Tonight?"

"You wanted protection," Cyprian said, reaching for the decanter of whiskey built into the limo's bar. He poured two glasses. "Thorne will have lawyers filing injunctions by morning. He’ll claim you’re mentally unstable. He’ll try to drag you back."

He shoved a glass of amber liquid into her hand.

"But if you are my wife," Cyprian said, clinking his glass against hers, "you fall under the Hale jurisdiction. And in my territory, Thorne doesn't exist."

Vespera stared at the liquid. It was the same color as the fear in Lysander’s eyes when she had threatened him.

"To the downfall of the House of Thorne," she whispered.

Cyprian watched her drink. "To the monster in the red dress."

The limo sped up, carrying them away from the gala, away from the past, and headlong into a war.