Chapter Ivor
Ivor
The bell tolls. Midnight.
The masquerade is ending, masks slipping away one by one, but I don’t need mine anymore. I left it on the nightstand, forgotten the moment Natasha sat on my face for the first time.
Now I walk her out into the grand hall, her hand clamped tight in mine, her hair wild, her lips swollen. Every eye turns. Every voice dips into a whisper. They don’t see the reporter who lied her way in here, they see the woman who left on my arm.
Good. They can choke on it.
My cousins are clustered by the fountain, masks dangling in their hands, champagne glasses raised. They look at her, then at me, then back again, and I see the envy burn bright. They thought I’d choose some empty pretty thing. Instead, I chose a wildfire they couldn’t handle if they tried.
My father waits at the far end of the hall, near the marble steps. Still masked, still regal, his presence part of the architecture itself, cold and immovable. He doesn’t move when I approach, doesn’t blink when I stop in front of him with Natasha at my side.
I tilt her chin up, make her look at him, make him see her bare face. “Father,” I say, voice carrying, “this is Natasha. The woman I’ve chosen as my wife.”
A murmur ripples through the hall. A cousin scoffs. Another hisses a curse. My father’s eyes flicker, cold and sharp, taking her in.
“Chosen?” he repeats, slow, as if testing the word on his tongue.
“Yes.” I don’t flinch, don’t look away. My hand tightens on hers until she feels the promise in my grip. “My wife. My queen. The future of this family.”
The silence stretches. Then my father exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, though there’s no warmth in it. “You bring me surprises, Ivor. Always.”
His gaze drags over Natasha again, and my chest burns with the urge to shield her, to tear his eyes out if they linger too long. But then he nods once, curt. “So be it. You’ve made your choice. The rest of us will see if it was a wise one.”
I smile, slow, sharp. “They’ll see. Soon enough.”
I bend, kiss Natasha full on the mouth, uncaring of the gasps, the whispers, the shock that ripples through the crowd. She stiffens for a heartbeat, then melts into me, and when I pull back I know every man in this room understands: she’s mine.
Not prey. Not a pawn. Not a guest.
Mine.