Chapter 4: The Public Eye 👀

​The Crystal Lounge was the kind of place where the lighting was designed to make diamonds look brighter and secrets look darker. It was a sea of black ties, silk gowns, and hushed conversations about interest rates and acquisitions.

​I felt like an imposter. I was wearing a dress my mother had picked out—a deep emerald silk that clung to every curve—and the gold anklet Julian had forced upon me was hidden beneath the hem, a secret weight against my skin.

​"Stay close, Elara," my mother whispered, adjusting her pearls. "The investors are here tonight. Julian needs us to look like the perfect family."

​The perfect family. The irony was enough to make me want to scream.

​We found Julian in the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of men who looked like they controlled half the city. He looked devastating in a tuxedo, the stark white of his shirt contrasting with the dark intensity of his face. When he saw us approaching, his eyes went straight to me.

​He didn't look at my face. He looked at the hem of my dress, as if he could see through the silk to the ruby he’d placed on my ankle.

​"Elena," Julian greeted, kissing my mother’s hand. Then he turned to me. "Elara. You look... radiant."

​"Thank you, Julian," I said, my voice tight.

​"I was just telling the board about your interest in the arts," he said, his hand sliding to the small of my back. His touch was firm, possessive. "Perhaps Mr. Thorne’s son, Marcus, could show you around? His family owns the largest gallery in the district."

​A tall, handsome man about my age stepped forward. Marcus Thorne had a golden-boy smile and the confident air of someone who had never been told 'no.'

​"It would be my pleasure," Marcus said, his eyes lingering on me a second too long. "Would you like a drink, Elara? The bar has an incredible vintage."

​I looked at Julian. I expected him to be pleased—he was the one who suggested it, after all. But his jaw was set like granite, and his grip on my back tightened just enough to be a warning.

​"Go ahead, darling," my mother urged, distracted by a socialite waving her over.

​I let Marcus lead me toward the bar. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe. Marcus was easy to talk to; he was normal. He talked about travel and music, and for a moment, I forgot about the dark, suffocating atmosphere of the Blackwood estate.

​"You're very different from what I expected," Marcus said, leaning in closer as the music swelled. "Julian is so... cold. I didn't expect his step-daughter to be so warm."

​He reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from my shoulder.

​Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

​"I believe you’ve had enough of her time, Thorne."

​Julian was standing behind us. He hadn't approached; he had appeared. The men around us sensed the shift in his energy and instinctively cleared a path. Julian’s eyes weren't on Marcus; they were locked on the hand that had touched my shoulder.

​"We were just talking, Mr. Blackwood," Marcus said, his smile faltering.

​"The conversation is over," Julian said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He stepped between us, cutting Marcus off entirely. He turned to me, his shadow falling over my face. "Your mother is looking for you. Now."

​Marcus took the hint and beat a hasty retreat. I turned to Julian, my temper finally flaring.

​"You’re being ridiculous," I hissed, keeping my voice low so the guests wouldn't hear. "You told him to talk to me!"

​"I told him to show you a gallery, not to touch what isn't his," Julian snapped. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers like iron bands. He didn't lead me toward my mother. He led me toward the darkened hallway that led to the private balcony.

​He pushed me back against the stone railing, the cold night air hitting my bare shoulders. The party was a muffled roar behind the glass doors.

​"You're hurting me," I lied. It didn't actually hurt, but the intensity of his gaze was overwhelming.

​"Don't lie to me, Elara. You like the fire," he whispered, leaning in until our chests were touching. "You think because we are in public, you can play games? You think you can let another man put his hands on you while you’re wearing my mark?"

​"It’s an anklet, Julian! Not a brand!"

​"In my world, there is no difference." He reached down, hoisting the hem of my emerald dress until the gold chain glinted in the moonlight. He ran a thumb over the ruby, his touch searing. "You are under my roof. You are under my protection. And until I decide otherwise, you are under my thumb."

​"My mother—"

​"—is inside, blissfully unaware that her daughter is a brat who needs to be taught a lesson in loyalty," he finished. He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine—not a kiss, but a ghost of one, a promise of total ruin. "If you smile at him again, Elara, I won't just send him away. I'll break him. Do you understand?"

​I couldn't answer. I was paralyzed by the sheer, raw possession in his voice. I was supposed to hate him. I was supposed to run.

​But as he let go of my dress and straightened his tie, looking every bit the perfect gentleman again, I realized the most terrifying thing of all: I didn't want to leave the balcony.

​"Adjust your dress," he said coldly, turning back toward the light. "We have a family to pretend to be."

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