22. Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
HARLOWE
Around us, the crowd churned. People were clustered at the bar, their voices overlapping into white noise—the same recycled gossip, the same hollow laughs.
Nobody said anything that mattered. It was all surface level.
Compliments that landed like insults, questions designed to extract information, smiles that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes.
The calculations were visible if you knew where to look., and every glance held the same equation. How much money? How much power? How useful are you to me? The room was full of predators in tailored suits, all of them measuring each other’s throats.
Arrow and I were the main event. I felt their stares like a weight, as they tallied us up, wondering what the engagement meant, what it would cost them, what they could gain.
In this world, everything had a price. They cared about what we represented—power, money, the shifting alliances that kept their world turning.
We were pieces on a board, and they were all trying to figure out how to move us.
I let my shoulder drift against Arrow’s, half to taunt the room, half to gird myself for the next arrival. If Antoli Romanov was the past, then Arrow was the living present, the afterlife in a Charvet shirt. The only man I’d ever met whose charm felt less like generosity than experimentation.
Watching him scan the ballroom, I felt the old, idiotic urge to both kill him and crawl into his lap—let him snap my spine, bend my will, and let every rival in the city watch him do it.
The last trickle of champagne coated my tongue. I savored that too—the strange peace of knowing this was just attrition.
Who starved out the other first won.
Arrow turned to face me. His eyes spent a millisecond scanning my face—the arch of my cheek, and the blue of my eyes. Something unguarded flicked across his features. Pride, maybe. Or the hunger of a collector who’d just acquired the one thing the city couldn’t replicate.
Atlas and Orion peeled off to do whatever mafia kings did at these things, and I caught Arrow watching me with a look I’d never seen on his face. It felt like it was a sort of allergic wonder, as if he couldn’t believe I’d absorbed every blow and stood taller for it.
A server drifted past with a tray of champagne. Grabbing another glass, I downed half in one swallow. The bubbles burned my throat, but the sensation was welcome—anything to dull the edge of knowing he was right about me. That I was exactly as corruptible as he’d gambled.
“Pace yourself,” Arrow murmured against my ear. “You need to be coherent for the toast.”
“Toast?” Alarm rose in my chest as I turned to him. “What toast?”
His smile was stunning, and whether it was the champagne warming my veins or something else, I couldn’t help but stare.
“Did you think we were just here to be seen? This is our official engagement party, Harlowe. Tradition dictates a toast.”
Before I could protest, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight found us in the center of the room. The crowd quieted, faces turning toward us with hungry anticipation. Arrow’s hand slid from my back to grip mine, fingers interlacing in a show of intimacy that made my skin crawl.
A man in a tuxedo appeared with a microphone, tapping it twice before speaking.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please. It is my great honor to invite Mr. Arrow Romanov to say a few words about his engagement to Miss Harlowe Virelli.”
Polite applause erupted as Arrow led me to a small platform at the far end of the room. I felt like I was walking to my execution. My heart hammered against my ribs as cameras flashed from every direction, capturing what would surely be tomorrow’s front-page news.
Arrow took the microphone with the ease of a man who’d been commanding attention his entire life. He pulled me closer to his side, his arm a steel band around my waist.
“Thank you all for coming tonight.” His voice carried effortlessly across the hushed room. “For those who know our families’ history, this union may come as a surprise.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
Understatement of the year.
“But sometimes the most unexpected alliances prove to be the strongest.” His gaze found my father in the crowd. “Harlowe Virelli represents everything that makes her family formidable—beauty, intelligence, and an unbreakable will.”
Keeping my face neutral took effort, even as his words twisted something inside me. The way he described me made me sound like a prized racehorse.
“Our engagement marks the beginning of a new era for both our families.” His thumb traced small circles against my hip, visible only to me. “And for this city.”
The crowd absorbed his words, all those faces upturned like flowers toward a toxic sun. His speech was perfect—just the right blend of dominance, possession, and political maneuvering.
“In Harlowe,” Arrow continued, “I’ve found not just a bride, but a worthy opponent.” His fingers dug into the hollow below my ribs. “And those who know me understand there is no higher compliment.”
A knowing chuckle rippled through the audience. I scanned their faces, cataloguing enemies and allies, wondering which ones would toast our union tonight, only to plot our downfall tomorrow.
“I ask you to raise your glasses.” Arrow lifted his champagne flute. “To Harlowe Virelli, soon to be Romanov. May our enemies tremble at the sound of our united names.”
The crowd echoed the sentiment, a sea of crystal catching light as they raised their glasses. Arrow turned to me then, eyes intense. Leaning in, his lips barely brushed against my ear. “Now, kiss me,” he whispered, voice for me alone. “Show them who owns you.”
Stiffening, I registered the blinding spotlight, the hundreds of eyes watching our every move. Refusal meant weakness. Compliance meant surrender.
Turning my face to his, my lips curving into a cold smile. “I’d rather die,” I whispered back.
His eyes flashed with amusement. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Before I could brace myself, he closed the distance.
One palm cupped the back of my skull, thumb pressing into the hollow behind my ear, while his other arm banded across my lower back, hauling me flush against him.
The heat of his body seared through the thin silk of my dress.
Then, his mouth was on mine—not a request, but a conquest. A public claiming.
The kiss was brutal. His lips moved against mine with the kind of confidence that came from never being told no—from always taking exactly what he wanted.
When I tried to keep my mouth closed, to maintain some shred of dignity, he bit my lower lip—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make me gasp.
The moment my lips parted, his tongue swept inside, tasting, demanding, owning.
Don’t respond. Don’t give him anything.
But my body was a goddamn traitor. Heat pooled low in my belly as his tongue stroked against mine, and his hand tightened in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it.
He tasted like champagne. My pulse spiked and my knees weakened.
The scent of him—cedar and smoke—wrapped around me until I couldn’t think.
Or breathe. I couldn’t even fucking remember why I was supposed to hate this.
Cameras flashed like lightning, turning the moment into a strobe-lit fever dream. Hundreds of eyes watched us, archiving every angle of my submission, and every second of his dominance.
My hand found his lapel, gripping the fine wool as if it were the only thing keeping me upright. My other hand slid up the hard plane of his chest to cup his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against my palm, the flex of muscle when he deepened the kiss.
When he finally tore his mouth from mine, we were both breathing hard. His pupils were blown wide, silver eyes nearly black with want, triumph gleaming in their arctic depths. My lips were bruised, while his were slick and red, smeared with my lip stain.
The ballroom erupted. Not just in polite applause, but roars, whistles, and catcalls. The hungry approval that came from watching something obscene. The sound reminded me where we were, what we’d just done, and how many people had witnessed my complete and utter capitulation.
Arrow’s eyes held hunger, yes. Possession, absolutely. But also, surprise. He hadn’t expected me to kiss him back like I was drowning and he was air.
He hadn’t expected to lose control himself.
His thumb traced my swollen bottom lip, and when he spoke, his voice was wrecked. “Beautiful performance.”
I smiled sweetly. “I’ve had practice pretending to enjoy things.”
His laugh was genuine, if cold. “For a moment there, I almost believed you wanted me.”
“Keep dreaming.”
Ignoring the tingling sensation his kiss had left on my lips proved harder than expected.
The crowd surged around us as we stepped off the platform; everyone was eager to congratulate the happy couple. Women who’d never spoken two words to me gushed over my dress, while men clapped Arrow on the back.
Across the room, my father’s eyes locked with mine. Regret flickered there, or was it satisfaction. Hard to tell. Before I could decide which, he turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
“Don’t worry about him.” Arrow followed my gaze. “He got exactly what he wanted.”
“And what’s that?”
“A front-row seat to the spectacle.” He guided me toward a quieter corner. “And the insurance that, when the dust settles, there will still be Virelli blood in the game.”
I laughed bitterly. “So, I’m just insurance?”
“Net, ty moy priz.”*
The tone he had when speaking to me in Russian sent goose bumps across my skin. Turning away from him, I needed to escape his intensity, his certainty. The room suddenly felt too small, too hot, the air thick with perfume and politics and power plays.
“I need some air.” I pulled away from his grip, muttering the words more to myself than him.
For once, he didn’t stop me.