Chapter 46
Violet
I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in my suite, staring at a version of myself I barely recognized.
Four weeks had passed since my trip to California.
Four weeks of intensive training; etiquette classes, political briefings, lessons on understanding social hierarchies and navigating conversations laden with hidden agendas.
Four weeks of practice dinners where every fork choice mattered, every word was scrutinized, and every gesture analyzed.
And now, in less than two hours, I'd have to prove that I'd learned it all.
My hands trembled slightly as I reached for my mascara, but I had to set it down again. This was the third time I'd tried to apply it, and my shaking fingers weren't cooperating.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pressing my palms flat against the vanity.
‘You're going to be fine, Violet,” Julian said from behind me.
I met his eyes in the mirror. He looked like his usual self; radiating the kind of casual confidence that came from a lifetime in this world. Meanwhile, I was a mess of nerves in a silk robe, my hair half-pinned, my makeup incomplete.
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I keep picturing that big New Year’s moment when the clock hits midnight. Like somehow that’ll be the second they decide they’re done with me. Goodbye to the old year, and also, goodbye Violet!”
“That won’t happen.” His certainty was almost infuriating.
I pulled away, pacing toward the massive walk-in closet that still intimidated me even after two months of living here. “I hope not,” I murmured. “God, I feel like my heart is about to explode.”
“Violet.” Julian’s voice was gentle but firm. “Come here, baby.”
I turned to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me with those intense blue eyes that always seemed to see straight through my defenses.
Slowly, I crossed back to him. He reached out and pulled me to stand between his knees, his hands settling on my hips.
“You've been trained by the best instructors in the world,” he said quietly. “You've studied every possible scenario, memorized every protocol, practiced until you could navigate these situations in your sleep. You're ready.”
“But what if—”
“Do you remember what you said to Cherry in that theater?” he cut in. “When you got her to confess?”
I frowned. “What does that have to—”
“You walked into that room knowing you had to get a confession from a murderer who’d never want to give it, and you did it.” His hands tightened slightly on my hips. “You were brilliant, Violet. You played her perfectly.”
“Well… that was different.”
“How?”
“Because...” I hesitated, struggling to articulate it. “Because that night I was fighting for something that mattered. For Cal. For justice. This is basically just rich people playing dress-up and judging each other over the pettiest stuff.”
Julian lifted a brow. “You think none of this matters?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—”
He smiled and pressed a finger to my lips, cutting me off again.
“I know what you meant,” he said. “But here’s the thing.
If you want to make a difference in this world, like Calista wanted, the way to do it is to attract people with power onto your side, because that’s where the money, influence, and connections reside.
And all the people who currently have those things happen to be in this little corner of the world.
So… it might be a bunch of pretentious, performative bullshit, but you still need to be able to navigate and thrive in it.
” He paused. “And you will. Because you're smart, and you have something I think most of those people lack.”
“What's that?”
“Authenticity.” His thumb traced small circles on my hip. “Everyone in this world is performing. Playing their social roles, wearing masks. But you know how to find the truth beneath the performance. That's your advantage.”
I took a slow breath, letting his words sink in. “Okay.”
He cocked his head. “Okay?”
“Okay, I'll stop spiraling.” I managed a weak smile. “For now, at least.”
“That's my girl.” He stood, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Now finish getting ready. And remember, you already proved you belong in this world. Tonight is just making it official.”
Twenty minutes later, my makeup was done, and I was standing in the closet, staring at the rows of evening gowns that had been provided for exactly this purpose.
The instructors had been clear: we couldn't ask for advice on what to wear. This was part of the test. We had to demonstrate that we understood the nuances of formal dress codes, and that we could choose appropriately.
I ran my fingers along the fabrics, considering and discarding options. Too revealing. Too casual. Too youthful. Too matronly.
My hand finally settled on a gown in deep emerald silk. It was floor-length, with a subtle train, and the neckline was elegant without being provocative; a soft cowl that draped gracefully. It also had long sleeves, which felt appropriate for the season and the conservative crowd.
Sophisticated. Timeless. Respectful of the occasion while still being beautiful. I pulled it from the rack and held it up, studying it in the full-length mirror.
“That’s your pick?” Julian asked from the doorway.
“Yes. What do you think?”
“It's perfect.” He crossed to me, taking the hanger and helping me step into the gown. His fingers were deft on the hidden zipper, and I felt the silk settle against my skin like water.
I turned back to the mirror.
The woman looking back at me was elegant and poised. Exactly the kind of person who belonged at a high-society event.
Julian moved to the closet's shoe section and returned with a pair of classic black pumps with a manageable heel. High enough to be elegant, low enough that I could walk and stand for hours without wobbling.
“You've clearly done this before,” I said, smiling as I slipped them on.
He returned my smile with a teasing one of his own. “My mother dragged me to a ton of these events when I was a kid. I learned what works.”
I returned to the vanity and finished pinning my hair into a chignon. When I was done, I stood and smoothed down the gown one final time.
“Okay,” I said, turning to Julian. “How do I look?”
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Something between pride and possessiveness, with something a little softer woven around the edges.
“You look like you were born to this,” he finally said. “But there's one more thing.”
He crossed to the dresser and opened a small velvet box I hadn't noticed before. Then he turned, and I saw the necklace he was holding.
It was a stunning emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds, hanging from a delicate platinum chain. The emerald was deep and rich, perfectly matching my gown, and the craftsmanship was exquisite.
“This belonged to my maternal grandmother,” Julian said, moving behind me. “Helen McClarnon. She wore it to every important event of her life. State dinners, embassy galas, even her own wedding.” His fingers were gentle as he fastened it around my neck. “And now, it’s for you to wear.”
I turned in his arms. “Thank you,” I said softly. "For everything. For believing in me even when I don't believe in myself.”
“Always.” He leaned down and kissed me, and I felt some of my anxiety finally begin to ease.
I could do this. I was ready.
“Come on,” Julian said, offering his arm. “It's time for you to go.”
The ballroom in the east wing had been transformed for the New Year’s Eve party.
I'd seen it before, of course, during the tour on my first training day at the estate, and a few times passing through.
But this was different. It was the ballroom as it was meant to be: glittering with candlelight and crystal chandeliers, filled with people in tuxedos and evening gowns, the air humming with conversation and classical music from a string quartet in the corner.
Not the sort of New Year’s Eve bash I was accustomed to, but beautiful all the same.
We stood at the entrance, and I felt Julian's hand tighten slightly on mine. This was where we had to part ways, because no Reapers were allowed at the event tonight. Only fully-fledged Club members.
“This is it,” he said, his hand finding mine one last time.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Remember,” he murmured. “You belong here. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise.”
He leaned down and kissed me, careful not to smudge my lipstick but firm enough that I felt it all the way through me.
“I love you,” he said against my lips.
“I love you too.”
Then I turned and walked into the ballroom alone, my heels clicking against marble, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter—careful to take it with my left hand so my right remained free for handshakes—and scanned the room.
There were at least a hundred people here.
I recognized some faces from the news: Senator Maher from Massachusetts, Ambassador Wolff from Germany, the CEO of the largest bank on the eastern seaboard.
Others were strangers, but their bearing and the deference people showed them indicated their importance.
Somewhere among them were the plants. People pretending to be one thing while actually being another. Actors playing roles to test the discretion of the Selection girls.
I'd been trained to spot them, but in practice, it was harder than I'd expected. Everyone here was performing to some degree. Everyone had agendas and masks.
I took a small sip of champagne and started circulating.
“Violet Calloway?”
I turned to find a woman in her forties approaching, elegant in navy silk, her smile warm and curious.
“Yes,” I said, extending my hand. “I'm sorry, have we met?”
"I’m Sarah Christensen. I'm with the Pacific Rim Economic Council.” Her handshake was firm and professional. “I heard there were a few promising economics students from BHU here tonight, and your name kept coming up. So I knew I needed to hunt you down.”