Chapter 17
XVII
LUCIAN
The cold bites a bit deeper in the courtyard that I expected. Now that night has fallen, winter has a way of reminding you that you’re alive—or that you’re pretending to be.
I light a joint that I won’t finish, leaning against a stone balustrade that overlooks the frozen fountain. It’s marble, veined and moss-bitten, with cherubs that look like they’ve seen too much. Quite fitting.
My parents pulled a few strings for me.
I was able to secure an invitation to this sorry excuse for an engagement party.
After all, who would say no to the Duchess of Ebonleigh, the Queen’s niece?
Who would dare incur the wrath of Earl of Thatchmere, a direct descendant of the King’s bloodline?
The Augustine-Beaumonts are more than just wealthy, we’re pure-blooded, and though I never cared for it, it does come in handy from time to time.
Behind me, the party swells.
Laughter, string music, the clink of cutlery. All of it gilded rot, a performance built on bloodlines and debt. A deep breath warms me enough to consider going back in.
But I saw her.
Eden—her gown caught the light like frost on moonlit glass.
She looked regal, untouchable. The moment our eyes met, my lungs had forgotten what to do.
My fingers had tingled around my champagne glass, and the only thing I could do was raise my glass to her.
Then I stepped outside, because as of recently she’s a terrible actor.
She wouldn’t have been able to keep it to herself that she saw me.
And if he had seen me, it would have thrown a wrench in my plan.
I stay outside for as long as I can manage, but my whole body is on fire. Knowing that Eden is so close? It’s like gravity—this thing she does to me. I had to close my heart entirely to avoid her these past few weeks. But it’s like a spell. There’s no logic.
Just pull.
Even from across the ballroom.
Beyond the orchestra and crystal chandeliers.
Past every silk-gloved sociality and half-sloshed noble.
I still feel her.
I feel her always.
That’s why I need to do this.
When I take a look through the window into the ballroom, dinner is over. They’ve moved back to their strange way of mingling. It’s been years since I’ve been to something like this—but I still remember the disgust like yesterday.
It’s not hard to spot Eden in the crowd. She stands out like a flower in a garden full of thorns. She looks like a statue carved to be worshipped.
Eden is laughing at something her mother said, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. There’s a stiffness in her spine that only I would recognize. A trained posture. A prisoner’s grace.
Silas hovers at her side, one hand resting possessively at her waist. His smile is too wide, too rehearsed. More than anyone else in this room, he needs tonight to be perfect. It’ll bring him one step closer to achieving his plan.
Her ring catches the light.
God. It mocks me from here, gleaming like a noose in disguise.
Just then, a hush comes over the crowd. The host of the party steps forward, wearing a well-tailored suit and perhaps the only genuine smile I’ve seen tonight.
It’s the tail-end of the party. Before it all breaks out into drunken dancing and outrageous laughter, it’s time for the toasts.
He has a list with him. Presumably the people who have been selected to speak on Eden and Silas’ behalf to the crowd.
He clears his throat and starts speaking.
I drop the joint and grind it into the flagstone with my heel.
Showtime.
A hush falls over the ballroom the moment I step back in.
Not out of fear.
Not yet, at least.
But I know they all feel it. The shift in pressure. The way the light seems to bend around me, as if the chandeliers themselves remember who I am—what I am.
I bite back a smile as I stride through the party.
Recognition rushes around the room, virulent. One pair of eyes catch the crests of the House of Augustine, and the House of Beaumont on my cufflinks, then another, then another. Within seconds, murmurs start rippling through the crowd like cracks across a frozen lake.
Silas might have sat at the top of the social hierarchy of that wretched school.
But I rule here.
In the real world.
Where it actually matters.
Lucian Augustine-Beaumont.
They whisper it with the kind of reverence people reserve for ghosts or monsters.
The product of the two near-mythical aristocratic families.
One of the three sons of the Duchess of Ebonleigh—Her Grace, the Queen’s own niece.
Blue blood, purer than most of the dying dynasties crowding the hall.
A direct descendent of the King himself through my father, the Earl of Thatchmere.
I’m aristocracy in its final form, wrapped in black wool.
I cut through the crowd like a scalpel—measured, deliberate, fatal. My presence is like a contagious disease, infecting the gala one trembling gaze at a time. Every polished back stiffens as I pass, every simpering mouth falters mid-gossip.
I’m sure they’re thinking about how to put the best foot forward.
Nobody expected to see me here—especially not Eden and her fuckwad fiancé. I keep my head high and avoid looking in their direction. But I can imagine Eden’s face when the murmurs get to her ears. Or better yet, when her witch of a mother realizes who I am.
The stories.
The gossip.
The whispers.
Anger sizzles at my collar.
The hypocrisy of it all burns like whiskey. Her mother will want to know who invited me, who managed to pull a member of my family out of the shadows. That’s when Eden will realize that I was always the right choice.
But she wasn’t brave enough to choose me.
I reach the heart of the ballroom, just as the host clears his throat. He stammers through the closing of some forgettable toast, voice cracking under the weight of my presence. The claps come in short bursts, the crowd distracted.
That’s when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
Only one person would dare.
“You’re not welcome here,” Silas says through clenched teeth, trying to look like he’s wearing a smile, trying to look like he doesn’t see the writing on the wall.
I grin. “The attendees would beg to differ.” I shrug him off.
All eyes are on us.
He can’t do or say anything.
He’s one of the guests of honor.
He has to behave.
That’s when the question floats through the speakers.
“Would anyone care to make a toast to the lovely couple?”
My hand rises.
Silas’ eyes are filled with dismay.
And mine? I imagine they’re brimming with amusement.
He must feel like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion.
“Ah yes, Lord Augustine-Beaumont,” the host says from the stage. “Please. Welcome!”
During the rapturous applause, right before I make my way to the stage, I look Silas dead in the face and say, soft enough for only he and I to hear. “I warned you. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.”
His face goes white.
I give him a dazzling smile.
The crowd parts for me, and after picking a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray, I walk toward the stage with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you’re about to destroy your enemy’s life. Sadly, Eden will be collateral damage. But suffering is a part of human existence.
We all must endure it at some point.
I take the mic from the host, who falters and swallows hard. It’s warm in my palm, when I lift it to my mouth the silence tightens like a noose. Silas is rushing back to Eden’s side, but I don’t look at her.
Not yet.
“Good evening,” I say, letting my raspy voice stretch languidly through the ballroom, velvet-wrapped iron. “I hadn’t planned to speak tonight. But standing here…watching such a beautiful celebration of love, legacy and—” I pause, my lips curling, “ —resilience, I simply couldn’t resist.
There are a few polite laughs.
But they’re brittle, and brittle things break.
“For those unfamiliar with me, I am Lucian Augustine-Beaumont. I’m familiar with both the bride and the groom. We all attend Augustine Diocesan Academy together. I’ve been there to witness the way their love bloomed, and how it burns now, despite all odds.”
My gaze slides to Silas.
He stiffens.
A flicker of something passes over his face—shock, fear, rage. His grip tightens on Eden’s waist. She’s a vision of beauty, as always, but there’s no hiding the surprise on her face. Her hands are twitching, her fingers trembling.
And her eyes? Those wide, frighteningly beautiful brown eyes?
They finally see me.
“Silas Peregrine-Ashford IV,” I say smoothly, “was always a man of vision. And to see that vision culminate in such a…strategic—no, stunning—match is heartwarming. Truly.”
A few hesitant chuckles ripple through the guests.
I can practically hear Silas grinding his molars to dust.
“Of course,” I continue, letting my tone sharpen, “it takes a certain kind of brilliance to stage a wedding of this magnitude when your family fortune has long since evaporated. To convince the world you’re not hemorrhaging wealth, but basking in it. That,” I say, “is admirable theater.”
Now the laughter dies.
It’s dead silent.
“And the Lockharts,” I add, pivoting my attention to Eden’s father, then her mother—who looks suddenly pale. “Such generous hosts. So eager to lift struggling nobility from the mire. A noble endeavor. Almost philanthropic if you ask me.”
My gaze snaps back to Eden.
Her trembling lips are parted. Her breathing is shallow.
She’s doing her best to hold it together—but my speech is going to push her over the edge, whether she likes it or not. I let the pause stretch.
Just as it’s about to become excruciating, I continue.
“It’s rare, you know…to find a man so dedicated to love that he would ransack what’s left of his deceased mother’s heirlooms to finance an elaborate proposal. Diamonds, I believe? From the last of Evadne Peregrine-Ashford’s collection?”
There are audible gasps.
Disbelief fills the room.
“That,” I say, with mock reverence, “is devotion. That is sacrifice. That is desperation, dressed in its finest tuxedo and paraded like a victory.”
Silas moves.
But he can only take a single step forward before Eden’s father catches his arms. His fingers press into his, firm and controlling.
The tears start rolling down Eden’s face as she watches me.
I see her rage.
I see her shame.
But worse than either, I see her longing.
I smile coldly.
“Congratulations to the happy couple,” I say, my voice like silk stretched over broken glass. “May your marriage endure longer than your bank accounts.” I raise my glass of champagne.
A few mischievous members of the crowd raise their own—I catch the eyes of Alexander and Alizé Duke, who seem to be enjoying this more than they should—but other than that, the tension could be cut with a knife.
I down my glass of champagne and step down, throwing the mic to the floor.
The MC stumbles to pick it up as he fumbles for words. He stares at me as if I’ve gutted a man on stage. It’s a pity they didn’t know that was my first choice—Silas’ live execution. But I doubt that would have had the effect I want.
But this?
This is irreparable.
No amount of damage control can fix this.
I walk through the chaos I created, untouched. The air around me quivers. The entire room is fractured. Nobody knows what to do, what to say—if they should even say or do something. As I pass Eden, I don’t touch her.
I don’t need to.
Her silence is a confession.
Her stillness, a scream.
Let them choke on the blood.