Chapter 15
Graduation Day at St. Lyra’s Prep
The auditorium shimmers with gold trim and history, sunlight pouring through stained glass like the room itself was blessing the moment. Every seat is full of pearls and pocket squares. Legacy families wrapped in elegance and quiet ambition.
Front row, Savannah Whitmore looks every inch the empire matriarch. Dressed in an ivory silk dress, perfect posture, and a soft smile that hasn’t left her lips all morning. Her husband, Wall Street’s very own Clay Whitmore, rests a proud hand over hers.
A few seats down, Ellie’s twin brothers, Callum and Cade, sit in silent observation. They graduated last year and are currently attending Wexley University.
But it was the row behind them that makes my throat tighten.
Sitting next to Mr. Acronym and Tex, is my big brother.
Zeke’s in all black, sharp, tailored, and expensive.
Armani, obviously. He’d gone full Bruce Wayne for the occasion and I love it.
Fresh fade so clean it looks like it came with a warning label.
Diamond-cut watch. Jaw set. Dark brown eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing that matters in the room.
For once the guys aren’t on a mission. They’re not lurking in the shadows. They’re just here to see me.
The headmaster adjusts the microphone with the precision of a man that has practiced it in the mirror every day for the last twenty years. Names roll out like clockwork. Girls stand. Bursts of polite clapping, shouts from proud families. Some names get whistles, some get wild cheers.
Ellie leans over and whispers, “I swear I heard someone hired a violinist.”
“Isabella Marie Blackwood.”
Silence.
Then Zeke stands. Full height, full volume, “That’s my girl!”
His voice cracks halfway through, loud, raw, and undeniably proud.
His hands hit like thunder, clapping hard enough to echo.
And right beside him, Tex stands too, broad and stoic, letting out a sharp whistle that makes half the room jump.
Mr. Acronym actually whoops, throwing one fist in the air like they were at the goddamn Super Bowl.
And then, Savannah stands. Graceful. Composed. Glowing with pride. She claps, hands delicate but decisive, and for the first time all morning, the room follows her lead. The applause swells, hesitant at first but then real.
“Eleanor Elizabeth Whitmore.”
Ellie rises like a starlet at a film premiere, slow, deliberate, draped in black and gold. She throws a wink at the crowd, twirls, and poses for the flash of a camera that hadn’t even gone off yet.
Applause roars. Someone whistle. Someone else screams her name like she was headlining a concert. A flower lands on the stage from somewhere. She blows a kiss, curtsies like she’s on the Met Gala carpet, and waltzes forward like it was all a scene she’d scripted herself.
???
The rooftop terrace of our penthouse has never looked like this.
It isn’t just a party. It’s damn a spectacle.
Luxury chaos, curated by a Whitmore with no budget cap and zero chill.
Gold dripping from every corner. String lights tangling with the stars.
Glass fire pits glowing beside velvet loungers.
Ellie had gone nuclear.
There’s a live DJ in a crystal booth spinning like we’re in Ibiza, fog machines rolling like a movie set, LED panels flashing our names in molten gold script, and enough champagne to flood the building if someone trips.
The pool has been covered in glass and turned into a back-lit dance floor that pulses with every beat drop.
Ellie’s golden dress clings like it had been airbrushed on by a team of runway stylists with something to prove. She’s dancing barefoot now, heels swinging from two fingers, curls wild, highlighter catching every spotlight. If the goal was making Pete jealous? Mission fucking accomplished babe.
Savannah and Clay find me near one of the outdoor lounge beds lit by floating candles and motion Ellie off the dance floor.
“You two…” Savannah says, voice steady but eyes glinting. “We’re so proud of you.”
Clay chuckles. “Be nice to your brothers next semester, El. Try not to steal their car, Bella.”
Ellie and I laugh. “It was one time, Dad.”
Cal strolls up with his hands in his pockets, a smirk carved like it came standard with the Whitmore name. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-kissed skin and tousled light chestnut hair that looks styled even when it isn’t.
Quarterback. King of The Order and Carrington Row. The kind of strong, spoiled, stupidly hot guy who ruled athletes, trust fund brats, and half the social calendar without breaking a sweat.
We used to get into so much trouble together when we were younger. Sneaking out, stealing his dad’s bourbon, and talking our way out of shit we absolutely shouldn’t have gotten away with. Cal’s always been anarchy in a varsity jacket. And I guess I’ve always been just reckless enough to follow.
His twin, Cade, had dipped out earlier to catch his boyfriend’s fight. Quieter, more intense. The one who used to drive Ellie and me home after parties back in high school. Always had ink on his hands and a sketchbook tucked under his arm.
I used to think there was something between us, especially after Nashville, but then he went off to college and got himself a boyfriend. Apparently, my gaydar was clearly way the fuck off.
“Heard you’re in Legacy dance?” Cal says, eyes dragging slow. “Those girls are hot. Hope to see you at some Carrington Row parties this fall. I’m sure The Order would love to have you give us a dance, Bella.”
Ellie makes a gagging noise. “Gross.”
Cal just smirks. “Relax, princess. It’s tradition. Legacy girls usually dance for us. Row parties are where it’s at. You’ll see soon enough.” He glances at me again. “Bells, you’ve really got what it takes.” He winks and strolls off, probably to go ruin someone’s night in the VIP corner.
“Ugh, can you believe I have to go to school with my brothers?” Ellie groans, dragging me onto the dance floor. “I swear to God, if I see Cal’s smug face before coffee, I will throw myself off the Rosethorne balcony in protest.”
The bass vibrates through my ribs. “This year is going to be insane,” Ellie says over the music, twirling me once. “Legacy rehearsals. Rosethorne room setups. Oh! And the masquerade party! You have to start planning your outfit now.”
I laugh, breathless. “That’s months away, El.”
“Exactly,” she says, wide-eyed. “And the theme is rumored to be Decadent Devotion, whatever that means, but it sounds like couture and poor choices.”
“You just want an excuse to wear a feathered mask and make out with someone mysterious.”
“I want an excuse to look hot and maybe ruin a politician’s son. That’s called balance, Bells.”
We dance for awhile and then I spot him near the terrace edge. Alone, quiet, watching like he always does. He doesn’t blend in, even when he tries.
I stroll over. “You hiding from Ellie or the army of drunk socialites trying to flirt with you?”
“Both. One tried to hand me a vape and asked my fucking sign,” Zeke laughs.
“Did you tell her you’re an Aries with a God complex?”
“I told her I’m her worst decision and to keep walking.”
I laugh. “Did it work?”
He drags a hand down his face. “No. I think it just turned her on more. She asked if I meant emotionally or financially.”
“God, you’re like pheromones for unhinged women.”
“I swear I attract feral energy like it’s my damn job.”
We both turn to the dance floor just in time to see Ellie draped all over a Wall Street clone with too much gel and not enough self-preservation.
Zeke squints toward the dance floor. “Is that Pete 2.0?”
“It’s like Pete 5.0 at this point. She’s chewing through Wall Street interns like they’re seasonal flavors.”
“Goddamn, she’s gonna eat him alive,” he says.
“She already has. He just thinks the edge of death is foreplay.”
Zeke barks out a laugh. “Poor bastard doesn’t even know he’s the appetizer.”
We crack up, sharp, ugly, perfect. For a second, it’s just us again. The way it used to be.
I bump his shoulder. “So… not checking in on an op?”
“Not tonight.” But something in his face tightens, just a small flicker. I know him too well not to notice.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he says, a little too fast.
I turn to face him fully. “Ezekiel Malik Blackwood.”
He exhales, eyes skimming past me. “Your real present’s downstairs. In the penthouse. Come with me, I want you to see it.”
I narrow my eyes. “What kind of present?”
His lips twitch. “The kind you don’t open in front of a crowd of drunk socialites.”
I give him a look, but he’s already stepping back, nodding toward the elevator.
“Come on.”
The door slides open and my heart stops. Zeke doesn’t say a word. Just places a hand on my back and gently guides me inside. The penthouse is still. Just the soft hum of the city beyond the glass and the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.
Someone is standing by the window, facing the skyline. My chest caves as he turns and looks at me.
“Daddy?”