Chapter Four

The Dinner Party Setup

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and blood — a cruel cocktail of fear and reality.

Tasha lay in the bed, her face bruised, her wrist in a splint. She looked small, tucked under white sheets, her curls crushed beneath the bandage on her forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, brushing a strand away from her cheek. “I shouldn’t have come to you. This is my fault.”

Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with painkillers.

“No,” she rasped. “It’s his fault.”

“Julian?”

A slow blink. “They were professionals. I couldn’t see their faces. But they said his name.”

My stomach clenched. I wanted to believe Julian couldn’t go that far. But a man like him didn’t just have wealth—he had reach. The kind that could silence people. Ruin careers. Crush lives.

Tasha gripped my hand weakly. “Camille… get out.”

I swallowed. “I’m trying.”

A soft knock broke the moment.

A nurse leaned in. “There’s a car waiting downstairs for you.”

I frowned. “I didn’t call for one.”

She smiled tightly. “Mr. Thorne did.”

Of course he did.

I stood slowly, rage curling beneath my skin. He sent a car. After Tasha nearly died. He was summoning me like nothing happened. Like I was just another piece in his game.

But I couldn’t refuse. Not yet. Not until I figured out what kind of monster I was really dealing with.

The Thorne estate was more castle than home — all glass, steel, and intimidation. Security escorted me up the marble staircase like I was royalty… or a prisoner.

A soft piano tune echoed through the massive hall.

Then I saw him.

Julian.

Perfect in a black tux, hair slicked back, cufflinks sparkling like secrets. He turned slowly as I entered the foyer.

His eyes drank me in — not hungrily, but possessively. Like I was a thing he’d bought and hidden, and now finally decided to show off.

“You look stunning,” he said softly.

“You’re a liar,” I replied.

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue.

“Tonight isn’t about us,” he said. “It’s about appearances.”

I crossed my arms. “Did those appearances include sending thugs to beat up my best friend?”

His gaze darkened. “If I wanted her gone, she would be. But I didn’t touch her, Camille. I’d never harm someone you love.”

I hated that part of me wanted to believe him. The way he said it — quiet, pained, almost… honest.

Almost.

“Then who did?” I demanded.

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Julian stepped closer. His voice dropped. “Because if I wanted you silenced, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

The room chilled.

His fingers brushed my lower back. A claim in public packaging.

“Now smile,” he murmured. “You’re about to meet my family.”

The ballroom glimmered like something out of a Gatsby fever dream. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet drapes. The soft tinkle of champagne flutes and fake laughter.

All of New York’s elite had come — investors, media moguls, socialites with collagen smiles and thousand-dollar shoes.

And at the center of it all: Julian and me.

His mistress.

Paraded like a prize.

A server passed by with champagne. I downed mine in two gulps.

“Ah,” came a cool voice behind me. “So you’re her.”

I turned.

She was beautiful in that untouchable, terrifying way. Like a swan with razors for wings.

“Vivian Thorne,” she said smoothly, extending a gloved hand. “Julian’s sister. CFO of Thorne Industries.”

I shook it carefully. “Camille Hart.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re very… brave.”

“Excuse me?”

“To show your face here. Among our kind.”

I raised a brow. “What kind would that be?”

She sipped her wine. “The kind that smells desperation beneath perfume. And knows a woman’s price before she does.”

I stiffened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Vivian leaned in, voice like venom silk. “Oh, but I do. I know Julian only gets sentimental when he’s hiding something. And that he never — never — brings women to family events. So either you’re a weapon… or a liability.”

She smiled again.

This time, it chilled me.

“I guess we’ll find out which soon enough,” she whispered.

—

Dinner was a stage play of fake civility.

A long mahogany table stretched endlessly, lined with society’s deadliest mouths behind silverware smiles. I sat beside Julian, trying not to shrink under their stares.

He played the perfect host — charming, attentive, untouchable.

Until dessert.

A waiter set down delicate plates of gold-flecked panna cotta. Conversation lulled as Julian stood, wine glass in hand.

“I’d like to make a quick announcement,” he said, voice calm and commanding.

Heads turned.

My stomach twisted.

Please no.

Julian turned to me. His hand slipped into mine.

I froze.

What are you doing?

He lifted our joined hands, smiling coolly.

“Tonight, I’d like to formally introduce Camille Hart…” He paused, letting silence fall like a guillotine. “…as my fiancée.”

A beat of silence.

Then:

Gasps.

Vivian’s glass shattered against her plate.

My world tilted.

I barely heard the applause.

Barely felt Julian kiss my hand.

My heart thundered.

Fiancée?

He hadn’t asked.

He hadn’t warned.

He just… announced it.

Claimed me.

Like a deal sealed in blood.

I turned to him, fury lighting my veins.

But Julian was already watching the crowd.

Smiling.

Triumphant.

As if the real game had only just begun.

Camille is blindsided — Julian has elevated her from mistress to fiancée in front of New York’s elite… but why? And what is he hiding now?