Chapter 7 The Guardian Gala #2
I suppress a snort. Luna could teach a masterclass in ego-stroking. She knows exactly how to play to Ruby’s pride in the Silva archives—their sprawling collection of rare texts and hoarded knowledge they guard like holy relics.
“Edmund would be delighted,” Ruby says, and this time, her smile is genuine.
“He’s in the gallery, speaking with Dr. Eric Vale about some newly acquired scrolls.
Do find us later. The archives were built for minds like yours.
” Her gaze slides back to me. “Unlike some who squander access to such privilege.”
“I’m not here for another lecture,” I say, letting frost crystallize every word.
“No. You’re here to waste a mind that could’ve redefined our field. Your parents would be devastated.”
“The only thing devastating is watching you feign grief now that they’re gone.”
Luna inhales sharply beside me. “Aria, please!”
But Ruby remains perfectly composed. “The Archives still hold space for Ellis brilliance. Should you remember where you came from.” She pauses, letting the weight of her next words settle.
“Though perhaps the Scholar’s Wing was wasted on someone who clearly prefers other pursuits.
Do give Dominic my regards. I hear The Den’s facilities are quite . . . stimulating.”
Then she turns, gliding away with a dismissal that only decades of wielding academic power can perfect.
“You couldn’t just let her believe you’re recovering quietly?” Luna hisses. “Some of us actually need Silva support. You know how fast Ruby’s disapproval circulates through the research networks.”
I drain my champagne instead of answering.
Let Ruby report back to her precious archives.
They can catalog my failures right next to my breakthroughs.
At least then they’ll have the complete set.
After all, isn’t that what the Silvas do best?
Preserve our worst moments alongside our greatest achievements, keeping score for generations to come.
The main ballroom unfolds in gilded excess, a carefully curated spectacle of power and tradition. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling stretches into a flawless night sky.
Once, magic like this made my heart race, and dream of crafting my own impossibilities. Now, I see the strings behind the spectacle. The manipulations disguised as marvels. Each constellation is too perfect, too precisely placed. A celestial hierarchy, mirroring the one unfolding beneath it.
Even the stars bow to the Darkmoors.
“Oh, it’s magnificent!” Luna practically vibrates beside me, eyes wide with wonder.
I can’t help but smile. Gone is the trembling little sister who used to hide behind my skirts. The one I had to teach which Founding Family members to charm and which to avoid. The one who’d memorize my lessons like scripture.
Never accept drinks from a Blackwood unless you want to wake up married to their latest scheme.
Always compliment a Silva’s research before their outfit.
And, for the love of all things sacred, don’t mention aging around the Vales, unless you’re ready for a one-hour sermon on their latest “revolutionary” youth serum guaranteed to erase ten years—and only sometimes cause spontaneous dental regrowth.
As if half of Crown Heights hasn’t already been magically lifted and smoothed by Vale’s perfectly legal “medical innovations.”
Now, Luna stands straighter than I ever did, and perfectly poised to take the legacy I never wanted. Maybe that’s how it should be. Let her have the grants, the approval, Alexander’s attention. Let her navigate these vipers while I . . . what? Hide in The Den with Dom?
Real heroic, Aria.
I snag a floating glass of Moonbite, watching the liquid shift between silver and pale violet, a telltale sign of crushed moongems steeped in arctic herbs, fresh from the Blackwoods’ private reserves.
The first sip coats my tongue in cold fire, then it spreads through me in waves; a pulse of something glacial and electric that doesn’t dull my edges but sharpens them.
Amateur hour.
Dom would laugh at this careful choreography of intoxication. In The Den, drinks are weapons, designed to strip you down to bone and sinew. Here, they’re just another prop in this elaborate performance of power.
“Stop glaring at the champagne like it personally offended you.” Luna’s fingers clamp around my arm. “You promised to behave.”
“I promised to attend. Behavior was never part of the deal.”
“Aria.” There’s that tone, the one she learned from Mom. Equal parts disappointment and command. When did my baby sister become so good at wielding guilt?
“Here.” She presses a warm, faintly glowing pastry into my hand, exactly like I used to do for her when these events became too much. “Focus on something else besides plotting everyone’s social demise.”
I let it melt on my tongue, tasting wealth and privilege and everything I pretend to loathe.
“Father always said your defiance would be your downfall,” Luna murmurs, watching as I drain another glass of star-bright champagne. “Mother called it your finest quality.”
The words land too deep. Maybe because they’re both true. Or maybe because Luna can quote them so easily now. And suddenly, I wonder if she’s finally become the daughter they always wanted, while I’ve become the lesson they warned her about.
My gaze moves before I can stop it, sweeping across the ballroom, brushing over perfect postures and curated smiles.
These events used to be our playground, Dom and I making private games of other people’s pretensions.
Six years of stolen moments and shared secrets, his fingers laced through mine as we’d count Ruby’s former students desperately dodging her notice, or bet on which Vale-enhanced socialite would crack first under the strain of their latest magical facelift.
He knew exactly how to make me laugh, and turned soul-numbing obligation into delicious conspiracy.
“Looking for someone?” Luna’s knowing smirk makes me want to dump my drink over her pristine dress.
“Don’t start.”
Her grin only widens. “Oh, please. Your eyes haven’t stopped scanning this room since the second we arrived. And we both know there’s only one person who could make you this . . .” she gestures pointedly at my rigid posture, “wound up.”
“I’m not looking for him.”
The lie scrapes out, brittle and unconvincing.
My traitorous gaze flicks through the ballroom again, hunting for a flash of copper hair and smirk that once made everything bearable.
Without Dom beside me, whispering wicked observations and plotting elaborate escapes, it’s like wearing armor with the chest plate ripped away.
And the worst part? I did this to myself.
Pushed away the one person who never tried to make me better than I am.
God, when did I become so pathetically dependent on him?
Luna rolls her eyes, like she’s already won. “You forget how well I know you, my dear sister.”
“Aria, darling!”
Vivienne Darkmoor approaches, all midnight-blue silk and polished grace. The fabric pools around her ankles, while the blood-rubies at her throat pulse in time with some unseen rhythm, as if even her jewels refuse to be inanimate under her command.
My stomach twists, unwelcome memories stirring at the edges of my mind. Summer nights on our terrace, my parents deep in discussion with Alexander while Vivienne sat beside me, teaching me how to gut a conversation without spilling a drop of blood.
“We’ve been quite lost without your particular charm.
” Her ice-blue gaze drags over me. Then, with a lazy flick of her lashes, she turns to my sister.
“And dear Luna. Alexander tells me you’ve been spending quite a bit of time in the lab lately.
Such admirable focus. Almost . . . obsessive, one might say. ”
Luna beams with pride. “Mrs. Darkmoor, your husband’s guidance has been invaluable. I only hope to honor my parents’ legacy through my work.” She touches Vivienne’s arm with delicate familiarity. “And thank you again for the lovely tea last week.”
Something flashes in Vivienne’s eyes but her smile never wavers. “Yes, well, Alexander does enjoy mentoring promising young talents.” Her gaze catches on Luna’s throat, where a thin silver chain disappears beneath her collar.
She lingers there just a beat too long, and something like amusement curls at the corners of her perfect mouth. Luna’s fingers drift up reflexively, brushing the chain before falling away, too fast. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Vivienne was trying not to laugh.
“Walk with me, Aria.” Vivienne’s fingers wrap around my arm, a gesture that seems maternal to anyone watching, but holds the bite of a serpent’s warning.
“Let’s show everyone there are no hard feelings about your absence.
” Her gaze slices toward Luna. “I’m sure you can find Alexander if you need anything, dear.
He always seems to know exactly where you are these days. ”
I let Vivienne guide me away, puzzling over the ice in her tone. Maybe she’s just having a bad evening? After all, this is Luna we’re talking about. She probably brings Vivienne flowers and asks about her charity work. Who could possibly dislike that?
“You’ve been missed,” she says, steering me toward a quiet alcove lined in enchanted ivy. “Though I insisted everyone give you proper time to grieve.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“Of course, darling. Alexander was quite firm about it. No one was to pressure you.” She studies me with serene detachment. “The penthouse has been comfortable, I trust?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“These gatherings have been dreadfully dull without your wit.” Her fingers brush a strand of hair behind my ear. “You must join me for tea this week, just us women. Like we used to.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Alexander still speaks of how impressed he was, watching you work your way up from filing clerk. Refusing to use the Ellis name.” Her smile curves. “Such determination.”