One Shattered Crown (Grimm Bargains #3)

One Ella

ONE

Ella

Justice … yeah, he looks dangerous. Jet-black hair, broad shoulders stretching the seams of his suit, gaze constantly scanning the room.

I feel a little sorry that I tried to kill his brother not too long ago.

Thorn survived—barely—and the only reason I’m still breathing is because he’d bend reality to keep Alana safe, and she loves me.

My death would hurt her, so I get to stay alive.

Which is a good thing, because there are more guns in this opulent pavilion than actual people.

I tear my gaze away from Justice and take a sip of champagne. The expensive brew is a crisp, floral, bubbly delight that tickles the roof of my mouth as I try to count how many bodyguards are lurking around the place. I give up after twenty. This is ridiculous.

Then I purposefully avoid looking at Justice and glance over at Alana. My best friend. The newly crowned Mrs. Thorn Beathach.

Her beauty practically fills the whole room, like light refracting off a diamond.

She has sparkling eyes, thick, dark hair cascading down her back, and cheekbones that are sharp yet feminine.

She’s glowing. Literally. Maybe it’s the chandeliers catching her earrings, or the champagne catching up to me. Could go either way.

Her man is danger in a suit with a scar across his face that’s a clear warning sign.

They’re a striking couple: beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Like a rose with steel thorns and a body count.

She holds up her phone and makes a post, probably on her family’s social media platform, Aquarius Social. She’s the biggest influencer in the country, with a platform that allows people to share emotions. Considering she’s radiating happiness, she’s spreading a lot of love right now.

Soft music winds through the air that sounds like delicate and expensive strings.

My shoulders roll back, irritated by a persistent, uncomfortable itch down my spine.

My quite bitchy stepmother must be nearby.

And, bingo. There she is with the stepsisters, loitering near the buffet where most of the bachelors are filling their plates.

My stepmother and sisters are just pretending to pick at things. Performance dining.

I shake my head.

“You really could smile a little,” Rosalie says beside me, her voice warm and dry with amusement.

I half turn to take her in. Rosalie wears a deep sapphire gown that hugs her like it was sewn on by angels. The color makes the impossible blue of her eyes even more shocking. Ethereal, but in a way that says she could still stab you with a heel if it came to it.

“I am smiling,” I tell her.

We match tonight in the same gown, same shade.

Except I’m many inches shorter, and mine doesn’t quite flow as gracefully.

But my blonde hair is curled just right around my shoulders, and my makeup’s on point.

I feel acceptable. Like I might belong here.

If I squint. “I can’t believe you’re here talking to me all by yourself. ”

Rosalie rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly.”

I scan the room again. Glittering gowns brush the marble floors, and tuxedos prowl past like sleek predators. Laughter hums just under the music. I catch sight of Alexei Sokolov by the bar. He’s partially turned, but his gaze flicks in our direction. Direct. Calculating. Possessive.

“Oh, there he is,” I murmur. “I’m surprised he let you out of his sight for long.”

Rosalie laughs, soft but rich. “He is a mite overprotective.” Right. Like the leader of the Russian mob is just a bit protective.

“How many guns does he have on him, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

I glance toward the exits, from doorway to doorway, cataloging shadows and broad shoulders. I count at least two mafia guys at each exit. The Russian half are Alexei’s, and the Irish ones are Thorn’s. Then a few more are scattered throughout.

Yeah. Glitter, music, silk, and enough firepower to start a small war. Just another Saturday night.

Alexei and Thorn own two of the most powerful social media companies in the world and also run mafia-like organizations with enough reach to make FBI agents cry into their keyboards. Charming, really. Alana’s family owns the third out of four major companies.

Technically, I should own the fourth. Should. But my stepmother’s still clinging to it with her clawed fingers and Botox-smoothed smugness. That’s temporary, though. The clock’s ticking, and she doesn’t even hear it. Unless she finally succeeds in getting me killed, and then she wins.

I can’t let that happen.

A couple dances past us, the woman’s golden gown billowing out and catching innocent ankles like a weaponized fabric storm. Strings hum from somewhere above like music’s just floating down from the cosmos, or a luxury sound system pretending to be heaven.

I’m ready to get out of the gown and into my yoga pants.

Even though I grew up an heiress in one of the wealthiest families of all time, my stepmother shipped me off to a boarding school in the middle of nowhere, with no fancy celebrations or even cake.

I’m more comfortable by myself in comfy clothes with a computer in front of me.

But I know my role, so I smile for anybody looking or filming.

“I’m still surprised Thorn agreed to have the wedding reception on Alana’s father’s property.

” The pavilion’s gorgeous, sure, but Thorn doesn’t exactly scream let’s compromise.

The man radiates control-freak energy in his sleep.

Rosalie snatches a champagne flute from a passing tray and takes a healthy sip. “Do you really think he’d have people over to his place?” she asks. “The guy has a moat. A real one. Like, with water and probably crocodiles. He doesn’t want strangers anywhere near it.”

“Good point,” I say. This location works for me, however. I’ve got a little side mission that will include hacking into Alana’s family servers. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to hurt anyone. For sure, I’d never harm Alana, but I do need access, and this party is a perfect distraction.

Rosalie looks around at the sea of glittering gowns and streamlined, gleaming tuxes. “Everyone from Silicon Valley is here,” she murmurs.

“And both mafias,” I add.

“Ella,” she hisses. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“You’re not supposed to talk about it. I don’t give a hoot.” The word “hoot” feels stupid the second it leaves my mouth, but I commit to it anyway. A shiver crawls up the back of my neck like a cold fingertip. Not just nerves—something heavier. A shift in the air. I pause and scan the room. Yep.

He’s watching me, and I hope he didn’t notice me staring at him a second ago. Something tells me he notices everything.

Justice Beathach. Thorn’s brother and enforcer.

For years, nobody even knew he existed, but when Thorn and Alana went public, he was found out.

I believe he’s now the most eligible bachelor in the world, which is probably something he hates.

I kept the article and pictures, just for research purposes.

Of course. Currently, he’s standing by the window like a predator in a designer tux, staring through the crowd like he’s memorizing everyone’s weak spots.

Rosalie follows my gaze and manages to remain quiet for half a beat. “He watches you a lot, and I can’t say there’s any amusement in his eyes.”

“Oh no,” I agree. “He hates my guts.” Yet, I try not to notice how disgustingly good he looks.

That tux hugs his broad frame like it’s been tailored perfectly for each muscled inch.

He has dark hair and brown, copper-flecked eyes sharper than razors as well as shoulders wide enough to block the sun …

or a bullet. And he’s still staring at me like he’s deciding if tonight’s the night.

“You did try to kill his brother,” Rosalie murmurs.

“I didn’t know Alana was going to fall in love with Thorn,” I snap, trying to look casual. Like I’m not deeply aware that Justice is probably the most dangerous man in this room.

Forget the “probably.” He is the most dangerous. And he really, truly wants me dead.

I glance down at my citrine-encrusted heels, which sparkle like tiny suns caught in a death trap. Absolutely stunning. Completely useless if I need to run. But the citrine grounds me.

Every human has an affinity with a specific crystal, whether they know it or not.

Most people never bother to learn, never take the time to actually engage with that pull humming just under their skin.

But some of us know all about the energy exchange.

We feel it. The strongest ability to harness the power only belongs to particular bloodlines, I’m fairly certain.

Those of us at the top? We were born into it.

The owners of the four social media giants are not there via coincidence.

We all come from long lines of crystal-bound bloodlines.

Old power. Ancient tech, dressed up in modern servers where crystals run computer systems with more electrical power than imaginable.

Everyone thinks social media platforms are run by codes and data.

They’re not. We’re using amplified magic.

Right now, diamonds are powering the servers at TimeGem Moments, a social media company that allows viewers to share memories, and one that should be mine.

TimeGem is my birthright. My company. My network.

But diamonds aren’t the right crystal for our system.

They’re all flash, no flow. My stepmother charges them with her abilities in a simple energy exchange, sure, but it’s all brittle.

Citrines are better. Stronger. More intuitive.

And they’re mine. I can exchange power with citrines by placing my hands on those crystals and moving energy between us in a way my stepmother can only dream about.

Citrine is my key back in, assuming I survive long enough to reclaim what’s mine and the assassins don’t get to me first. “Rosalie, I’ll be right back.” I turn slightly. “I’m going to run to the restroom.”