First Blood

Alora's Pov

The taxi ride back from the club feels like being trapped in a cage of my own ribs. Every time I close my eyes, I see Leyla’s cold, painted face.

I’ll be his mistress. Live with it.

I don’t go home. I can't. I have the driver drop me at a 24-hour diner, but I can’t eat. I watch the clock until 11:47 PM, my fingers tracing the digital copy of the contract Lucien has already sent to my email.

Clause 4: Discretion. The Bride shall not interfere with the Groom’s external associations.

Clause 9: Possession. Upon signing, the Bride becomes a resident of the Vale Estate. Failure to comply results in the immediate reinstatement of all charges against George Blackwood.

He doesn't just want my hand; he wants to isolate me.

At 1:20 AM, my phone chimes. A text arrives from the same "Unknown" number that has been haunting me.

“The courthouse side entrance. Five minutes. Don’t be late, Lo. George is already in the holding cell.”

My heart hammers against my teeth. I flag a new cab, my pride burning to ash.

The courthouse is a gray monolith in the pre-dawn fog. Lucien leans against a black SUV, the orange glow of his cigarette is the only light in the gloom. He looks refreshed, while I feel like I have been dragged through a gutter.

“You look like hell,” he says, flicking the ash.

“You’re a monster,” my voice raspy. “You use Leyla to get to me. You know she will tell me everything. You want us to break. What's your endgame?”

Lucien steps into my space, his shadow swallows me. “I didn’t break you, Alora. I just stopped pretending the cracks aren't there. You two have been playing this game for years. All I did was end the round.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a thick fountain pen and the physical contract. He lays it on the hood of the SUV.

“Sign. George walks out the back door with a clean record. No hearing. No record. Just a 'clerical error' by the DA.”

“And if I don’t?”

“He goes to a state facility. We both know George wouldn't last a week in general population.”

My hands tremble as I take the pen. The metal is cold. I scribble my name, Alora Blackwood, on the line. It feels like I'm signing a death warrant for my soul.

He takes the paper and tucks it away, then pulls open the SUV door. “Get in.”

“I need to see my brother first.”

“The deal is for his freedom, not a family reunion. He’s being processed out now. You’ll see him when I say.” He leans down, his lips brushing my ear, sending a traitorous shiver down my spine. “You’re mine now, Alora. Every minute of your day belongs to me. And our first appointment is a wardrobe fitting.”

“A fitting? At 3:15 in the morning?”

“The gala is tonight. You’re going as a Vale, not a Blackwood. I won't have you looking like you've been crying in a diner.”

He pulls a small velvet box from his pocket and snaps it open. Inside, a diamond engagement ring catches the dim morning light. Before I can pull away, he slides the heavy band onto my finger. It feels like a shackle.

“Smile,” he murmurs, pulling me against his chest. He holds up his phone and snaps a photo of us; me, pale and trembling, and him, looking like a man who just won the world. Within seconds, I hear the ping of notifications. The "happy news" is already live.

Two hours later, I stand in the center of a high-end boutique. Lucien forced to open early. A stylist pins a dress to my frame; a deep, blood-red silk that feels so soft like a second skin.

Lucien sits in a velvet chair, a glass of scotch in his hand despite the hour. He watches the stylist’s hands on my waist with a territorial darkness in his eyes.

Suddenly, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and I see his jaw tightening.

“What is it?” I ask, stepping off the pedestal.

He turns the screen toward me. It is a tabloid notification. It is already trending.

HEARTBREAK OR HEIST? Billionaire Lucien Vale’s Fiancee Spotted at the Cresswell Club Kissing an Unknown Man.

The photo is grainy, but the woman is unmistakable. The dress, the hair, the face; everything looks exactly like me.

But it's Leyla.

She isn't just planning to be the mistress. She's going to destroy me before the wedding bells even ring.

Lucien stands, the glass shatters in his hand.

Blood drips onto the expensive carpet, but he doesn’t blink. He looks at me, his eyes burning with a raw, terrifying rage.

“Tell me, Alora,” he hisses, stepping toward me as the stylist scrambles away. “Is this how you and your ingrate of a sister thank me?"

The door to the boutique swings open.

Leyla walks in. She's not the tired, smeared-mascara girl from the dressing room. She's a weapon, wearing the exact same shade of blood-red silk, her hair styled in the same sleek waves Lucien had demanded of me.

She looks like my mirror came to life, except her smile is sharp enough to draw blood.

“Oops,” she whispers, her eyes dancing with a light I didn’t recognize. “Did I ruin the surprise, Lucien? You always said you couldn't choose between us. I thought I’d help you out.”