Chapter Four #3
The entrance to the luxury hotel shimmered under a thousand lights, the chandeliers inside casting fractured diamonds across marble floors.
Luxury bloomed everywhere—velvet drapery in deep crimson, white-gloved staff guiding guests with murmured deference, the scent of jasmine drifting through the warm summer air.
The guests—the elite of Athens—were adorned in custom gowns and perfectly tailored suits, humming with the energy of money and influence.
She didn’t belong here.
Never had. Not even with her diamond-studded heels and designer dress. Not even with the man who held her hand as if she were his prize.
For a moment, Aliyah panicked when Constantine leaned in and murmured something to Rose, then steered her away toward a gathering of younger guests near the garden terrace.
He was the only constant she had. The only one who had ever managed to mold himself into any space, any crowd, any version of power. And for a sliver of a second, she feared he’d disappear with Rose and leave her to face the wolves alone.
But he didn’t. He gave her a slight nod—an unspoken reassurance—and left her at the center of the marble-floored ballroom.
A string quartet played something lush and classical. And from across the room, her mother approached.
Noor looked radiant, her silver-streaked hair swept into an elegant chignon, her couture gown stitched in pale golds. Her smile was practiced. The kind that never quite reached her eyes.
“I told you he would solve it,” Noor said by way of greeting, pulling Aliyah into a brief, scented embrace.
Aliyah inhaled the familiar perfume—iris and lilac—and felt something sharp wedge beneath her ribs. A lifetime of reaching for this woman’s warmth and never quite finding it returned all at once.
As a girl, she’d tried everything—perfect piano recitals, glittering report cards—but it had always been Julian who Noor adored.
After his death, Aliyah had hoped that maybe, just maybe, her mother would reach for her.
But instead, all of that love had curdled into rage and hatred.
And Constantine had borne the brunt of it.
Now, even in this moment, Aliyah doubted if the gleam in her mother’s eyes was approval or, God forbid, happiness that Aliyah could protect her stepdaughter.
“You’re happy?” Aliyah said, giving in to her curiosity.
“Of course.” Noor’s voice was light. “This means you’ll be back where you belong. And Constantine doesn’t get to be full lord and master of what should have been Julian’s.”
Aliyah’s stomach turned. “He’s given his entire life to this, Mother.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t share the top spot with you.”
There was no question of whether Aliyah herself was okay with this sudden engagement. No curiosity about the years she’d spent away, the man she’d buried, the stepdaughter she was now raising. Her grief, her survival, her choices—none of it mattered to her mother.
She swallowed the hurt down when her father just appeared.
Theodore Andros looked older. His hair was thinner, grayer.
The tailored tuxedo hung more loosely on his frame.
But there was a lightness to him too. A strange openness that hadn’t existed when she was young.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he stepped forward, gripped Aliyah’s shoulders and kissed both her cheeks.
“You look well,” he said, voice quieter than she remembered. “I’ve been hearing things about your career. Impressive.”
Aliyah blinked. Her father had never praised her for anything. He had once scoffed at her desire to study languages. Now, this quiet pride felt like stepping into someone else’s dream.
“Thank you, Papa,” she said cautiously, not knowing how to hold it.
“I would like for us to visit,” he added after a beat. “Spend some time together.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
She felt the instant shift in her father’s posture before she saw him—Constantine, cutting through the crowd with unhurried precision.
Her father straightened beside her. For a moment, Aliyah watched them—the man who’d once shaped Constantine’s hunger for power, and the man who’d surpassed whatever Theo had dreamed for him. The tension between them stretched taut and silent, as Constantine reached them.
Was it a reversal of power, of positions? Could Constantine dismiss her father, treat him as he pleased, because there was nothing left to gain from him?
The thought came unbidden, and she hated herself for thinking it. Just as quickly, she dismissed it.
No. For all the pain he’d caused her, Constantine had never courted her father’s approval like a transaction. He’d wanted something far more dangerous and unachievable from Papa—he’d wanted belonging. Affection. Even love.
The same as her.
Had he realized he would never get it, however hard he worked? Was that bitter realization why he had chosen the tangible wealth and power that Papa could give him rather than her?
Even now, when she least wanted to admit it, when she’d rather remain bitter and cynical of him, she still gave him that benefit of doubt.
Always would, it seemed.