Chapter 35
ELLIE
Iknow the second I sit down for breakfast the following morning that something has changed.
Nothing is wrong yet. The air still smells the same. My body still works the way it always has. But there’s a pressure in my chest, a quiet insistence, like the world has already leaned forward and I’m the only one pretending we’re standing still.
I can’t point to a reason. That’s the worst part. If there were signs, I could argue with them. If there were facts, I could line them up and make sense of it. Instead, there’s just this hum under my skin, a warning without words.
I keep thinking, After this.
After tonight. After the door opens. After whatever comes next.
I try to name what I’m afraid of, and my mind goes blank. Not pain. Not loss. Not even danger, exactly. It’s more like the knowledge that whatever version of me exists right now is temporary, already dissolving at the edges.
I feel watched by the future.
Like something has already been decided, and I’m only now being informed.
I move forward because standing still seems impossible. Every step carries the same quiet certainty—this is the moment before the story splits, and I won’t recognize the path I’m on until it’s too late to turn back.
For all intents and purposes, everything appears normal.
I sit down—Zane on one side and Beckett on the other, with Dominic directly across from me—and watch Aria daintily sip from her coffee mug.
Normal. Routine.
Yet my skin prickles with a keen awareness, with the knowledge of what’s to come. Alarm bells blare in my head.
Fischer is home, but he hasn’t left his room. I think Aria locks him in there when she doesn’t want to speak to him.
Is it possible she overheard our conversation?
Perhaps.
Aria sits at the table with her legs crossed, silk robe pristine, steam curling from her coffee mug like it’s part of the aesthetic. Morning light filters in through the window and turns everything soft. Safe. Ordinary.
That’s how she likes it when she drops bombs.
“The Paragons of Prosperity are hosting another event,” she says casually, eyes on her mug as she takes a sip.
The words hit me like ice water down my spine.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, though I keep my expression placid. “Is it going to be like the last one?”
Lenny’s desperate cries…
Senator Reece Whisper’s naked, mutilated body…
Doyle’s head jerking back with a bullet between his eyes…
Aria looks up slowly. Her smile spreads with deliberate precision, sharp and pleased. Wicked, if I’m honest.
“Oh no,” she says. “This one will be even better.”
My stomach drops.
She sets the mug down and stands, smoothing her robe. “A team of hairstylists and makeup artists will arrive shortly to prepare you. We wouldn’t want to disappoint our guests.”
Her ominous words send fear prickling down my spine.
She leaves the kitchen without another word, heels clicking against the floor. The sound echoes long after she’s gone.
I turn toward Dominic, Beckett, and Zane, my stomach muscles clenching. “This is it,” I say quietly. My voice doesn’t shake, which surprises me. “This is Aria’s final play.”
Dominic’s jaw tightens. Zane exhales through his nose, already resigned. Beckett doesn’t say anything at first—just nods once, slow and grim.
“Yeah,” Beckett says finally. “It is.”
The doorbell rings less than ten minutes later.
They arrive in a wave of black rolling cases and neutral expressions, ushering us with polite efficiency like we’re late for something important. They tell us the men will be taken to one room, me to another.
Beckett steps forward. “No.”
Every head turns.
“I’m staying with her.”
There’s a pause. An uncomfortable one. They exchange looks, clearly unsure of how to handle resistance.
“She needs to be prepped,” one of them says carefully—a woman with brightly dyed pink hair and dramatic makeup.
“And she will be,” Beckett replies flatly. “With me present.”
Another look. Another silent calculation. In the end, they nod.
Spineless sheep, all of them. They don’t know what they’re a part of—just that Aria signs their checks.
Are they even members of POP? Doubt it.
They lead us into a large bedroom I’ve never entered before, flooded with light. Racks of clothing line one wall. A dress hangs front and center, pale and flowing, unmistakably chosen for symbolism rather than comfort.
As soon as they start fussing with it, Beckett scowls. “That color washes her out.”
One of the stylists hesitates. “This is what Ms. Aria requested.”
“That doesn’t make it flattering,” he says dryly.
I bite back a smile, despite the knot in my chest.
They murmur among themselves, clearly torn, before one of them shrugs. “We were instructed very specifically.”
Beckett rolls his eyes. “Of course you were.”
He doesn’t push further, though. He sighs and steps back, arms crossed, watching every move like a guard dog.
When they finish, I barely recognize myself. The dress fits perfectly—too perfectly. Like it was made with me in mind, not for me.
It’s a soft, bone-pale color—somewhere between ivory and ash—designed to look innocent until you notice how carefully everything is controlled.
The material is light, almost weightless, layered chiffon that moves when I breathe, when I shift, when I exist. It doesn’t cling, but it doesn’t let me forget it’s there either.
The neckline is high and modest, sweeping just below my collarbones, all restraint and virtue.
But the back is open, a long, elegant curve of exposed skin that feels deliberate.
Long sleeves drape over my arms, sheer enough that my skin shows through, the cuffs fastening at my wrists as if to remind me I’m being kept, not adorned.
The waist is cinched gently, not tight—no discomfort, no rebellion—just enough to define me. To frame me. To make sure I look exactly the way someone else decided I should.
It’s beautiful. That’s the cruelest part.
The skirt falls in soft layers to the floor, whispering when I walk, brushing my ankles like it’s trying to hush me. No pockets. No room for anything practical. No place to hide.
I look like a symbol.
Like an offering.
Beckett grabs his suit from a garment bag. “I need to change,” he says, already heading toward the bathroom. He pauses to spear me with a dark look. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Yeah…I can’t promise that. The last thing I want to do is remain around these buzzing gnats who ooh and aah over me, as if I’m the most beautiful girl in the world instead of a carefully constructed doll.
I need a minute—a second—to breathe.
I wait until the bathroom door clicks shut before slipping out into the hallway.
The air feels cooler there. Realer.
I press my palms against the wall and close my eyes, breathing slowly, trying to steady the feeling in my chest—the one that says everything is about to change, and I won’t be able to stop it.
The silk of the dress is a poison against my skin. Every brush of the fabric is a reminder of the polished, smiling doll she’s created.
How the hell are we going to get through this?
I know in my gut that this is it—Aria’s final play. She has positioned the pawns where she wants them on the board, and tonight will end with one of us being checkmated.
I lean my forehead against the cool plaster of the wall and try to breathe.
Just breathe.
Is it possible for us to get word to Raymond, Ryker, and Landon? I have a feeling we’ll need the backup.
What about Dominic, Beckett, and Zane? If we’re nearing the end, will Aria have any use for them? Will she kill them just to spite me? The mere thought causes my heart to race even faster, my hands to turn slick with sweat, my stomach to curl in on itself like brittle paper meeting a flame.
Fuck.
A shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness near the stairs, and I jump.
Zane.
He moves with a predator’s grace, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
I take a moment to admire the suit Aria forced him into.
It clings to his muscular physique in a way that almost makes me jealous.
His obsidian hair has been—get this—combed away from his chiseled face.
He’s gorgeous.
And mine.
Completely.
He doesn’t speak. He just crosses the space between us, his presence filling the narrow hall.
His hands come up to bracket my face, his thumbs stroking the line of my jaw.
His gaze is heavy, dark with a possessive anger and a raw, urgent need that makes my own anger and fear melt away into a liquid heat that pools low in my belly.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. “Your makeup team and Beckett are just on the other side of that door. Dominic is down the hall. Aria is in the living room. Fischer is in his bedroom. Any sound, and they’ll come running. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Before I can answer, his mouth is on mine, a punishing, desperate kiss.
It’s not gentle; it’s a claiming. His tongue sweeps in, tasting me, owning me, and my hands fly up to grip the front of his shirt.
The silk of my ridiculous dress is bunched in his fists as he presses me back, back, until my shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud.
The impact is a shock, but it’s nothing compared to the shock of his thigh wedging itself between my legs, pressing hard against the ache that has already started to build there.
He breaks the kiss, his lips hovering over mine before moving to my ear. “You make a sound, Ellie,” he whispers, his breath hot against my skin, “and I stop. Understand?”
I can only nod, my throat too tight to form words. A wicked, dangerous light glints in his eyes. This is a game to him now. A test.
His hand leaves my hip and slides slowly up my side, over the silk, until it cups my breast. He’s always been a tits man. He once referred to them as his “breast friends.”