In Or Out?

Alora's Pov

Lucien’s hand is a dead weight on my waist as he grips me. The second he spots a high-ranking senator across the room, he disposes me.

"Marcel," Lucien says, his voice smooth as the scotch he's been sipping. "Keep my fiancée entertained for a moment, will you? I’d hate for her to look bored in a room full of people who adore her."

Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and drops it into Marcel’s. A casual move that feels like being traded between two different lifetimes. Lucien strolls away, radiating the kind of ego that only comes from owning everything you see.

The orchestra shifts into a slow, haunting waltz. Marcel’s grip on my hand is different yet familiar in a way that hurts. It’s the steady warmth of the boy I once trusted with every secret.

We both speak at once.

"Alora..."

"Marcel, I..."

We stop. The silence between us is louder than the violins.

"You go first," he says, his voice gravelly.

I glance toward the door where I last saw Leyla. A bit desperate for an exit. "Your date," I mutter, nodding toward the hall. "You should be dancing with her."

Marcel’s eyes are dark now, boring into mine. "I’ll dance with her once she steps back in. Right now, we're stuck with each other."

The word stings. We spin in a slow circle, the ballroom blurring into a smear of gold and white.

"Alora," he says, pulling me a fraction closer. "What happened? You didn't just leave. You erased yourself, us! New number and no address. You stopped reaching out as if I were the one who betrayed you."

The grief in his voice makes my chest ache. I can’t tell him the truth. Not now or ever.

"Why are you here, Mar?" I counter, my voice shaking. "Why are you helping him? Does Lucien have some dirt on you?"

He lets out a short, dry chuckle. "Wow. You really think that little of me? You think I’m here because I’m a pawn?"

"Then please, leave!" I plead, my fingers digging into his shoulder. "Step away from all this drama. Leave tonight. For your own sake, just go."

His expression hardens, the warmth in his eyes flips to cold flint. "You stopped telling me what to do and I stopped listening to you six years ago. Don't start now just because you're wearing his ring."

The song ends, but the air between us is thick enough to choke on. I can't do this. I pull my hand from him and bolt, weaving through the silk-clad bodies until I find the sanctuary of the ladies' room.

I burst through the heavy mahogany doors, my vision blurred with tears I refuse to let fall lest they ruin the $500 mascara Lucien bought for me. I grab the edge of the cold marble sink, gasping for air.

"Careful, Alora," a voice drawls. "You’ll ruin the makeup he paid so much for."

I spin around and see Leyla leaning against the vanity, casually checking her lipstick in the mirror. She looks like she just finished a war and didn't break a sweat.

"Lucien is playing with people’s lives, Leyla!" I snap. "What are we even doing for real? This isn't even about George anymore."

Leyla turns slowly, her ice-blue gown shimmering under the fluorescent lights. She walks toward me, her heels clicking like a countdown.

"You think Lucien is the only one who knows how to play a game?" she whispers, leaning in close until I can smell her perfume, sharp and dangerous. "Marcel isn't here to be a guest. And he didn't come back from Europe for a highschool reunion."

She smiles, but there is no warmth in it.

"He’s the crack in Lucien’s foundation. We aren't here to join the Vale family. We’re here to burn it down from the inside and if you’re smart, you’ll dry your eye, stop crying like a victim and help us strike the match."

I stare at her, my heart hammering. "How do I know I can even trust him? He looks like he wants to kill me."

Leyla snaps her lipstick shut. Click. "You don't. That's what makes it interesting. But ask yourself, would you rather trust a man who might break your heart, or keep sleeping next to the one who’s already dead inside?"

She pats my cheek, leaving a faint red smudge of her lipstick, and walks out.