Chapter 7 The Guardian Gala #3
I shift uncomfortably under her praise. “Being born into something isn’t the same as deserving it.”
Vivienne just hums in response. “Though watching dear Luna try so hard to fill your shoes . . .” She sighs delicately. “It would be such a shame to let your sister’s enthusiasm overshadow your rightful place.”
My spine stiffens. “Luna’s doing well for herself.”
“Oh, of course she is. So eager.” The sweetness in her voice is syrupy enough to choke on.
“But we both know how hard it was for you, living under the weight of your parents’ legacy.
Such a burden for someone so young. And now poor Luna is trying to shoulder it alone.
” She sighs again, light and artificial.
“You were always the natural choice to carry their work forward. It seems almost cruel to let your sister struggle when you could step in so easily. One word from me to Alexander, and it’s done. ”
“I haven’t decided if—”
A laugh rings out behind us, raw and unpolished, slicing clean through the room’s carefully curated murmur. It doesn’t belong here. It never did.
“Mother, will you let the poor girl breathe.”
Rowe Darkmoor steps into view, and even I have to admit, the sanctuary work has been good to him.
The Rowe I knew wore quiet devotion like a second skin, but this man?
Strength teems beneath the perfect cut of his suit, raw and tempered, no longer something to be contained but carried.
Still, when his eyes find mine, deep blue and painfully familiar, I feel the same rupture inside my chest. That quiet, unwavering belief in me, and in the version that only ever lived in his mind.
“Darling!” Vivienne’s eyes light up. “I thought you were too busy with your pet projects to attend.”
“My work at the creature sanctuary is important, Mother.” His gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “The griffin rehabilitation program saw major breakthroughs this month.”
“Of course.” A dismissive flick of her fingers, as if his work is nothing more than a passing hobby. “Though I’m so pleased you made time. Aria and I were just discussing her return to Darkmoor Industries.”
“I should really check on Luna,” I say quickly, scanning the ballroom for an escape.
“Nonsense! You two haven’t had a proper conversation in ages.” She smiles tightly, her gaze flicking between us. “You were such good friends once.”
“I’m sure Dominic would be thrilled to see us catching up,” Rowe says dryly.
Vivienne doesn’t so much as blink. “Well, I don’t see him here, do I? And I simply must speak with your father about the security arrangements. I can’t just leave Aria standing alone. You’ll keep her company, won’t you?”
“Really, I’m fine—”
“Wonderful.” Her fingers dig gently into my arm. “You two catch up.”
An awkwardness hangs between us as her heels click away across marble. Rowe shifts his weight, and I take another sip of champagne, letting the bubbles burn down my throat.
“I missed you at the Academy spring fundraiser,” he says finally.
“That’s nice.” I scan the crowd, hoping to spot Luna or literally anyone else.
“I wrote to you about that. About a lot of things, actually.”
The genuine hurt in his tone makes me want to claw my own skin off. “I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to respond to a single letter? Not even a word to let me know you were okay?”
“What did you expect, Rowe? Some heartfelt update from the edge of grief? Updates on broken dreams and childhood trauma? Sweet little notes from the edge of sanity?” I flick my gaze toward him. “I used them to start fires.”
He flinches, and for a moment, I hate myself for it.
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair,” I snap. “Shouldn’t you know that better than anyone?”
He exhales slowly, like he’s holding back a dozen things he’ll never say. “I thought . . . we were still friends, at least.”
“Friends?” I arch a brow, letting cruelty sculpt my smile. “Is that what we’re calling it? All those charity galas where you’d conveniently appear at my table? The winter formal where you spent the entire night watching me dance with Dom? At least pretend to have some dignity.”
His expression falters. “I never hid how I felt.”
“No, you just hid everything else. Tell me, how’s the sanctuary? Must be nice having a convenient escape from all . . .” I gesture broadly at the opulent room, “this. Some of us didn’t have that luxury.”
I see the hit land in the way he stills, in how his hands clench at his sides. The same hands that once steadied mine during lab work, when everyone else was too afraid to partner with the infamous Ellis legacy.
“Why are you being so vicious? I’m just trying to be here for you, Aria. Like I’ve always been.”
“I never asked you to be.” The words come out defensive, because that’s the problem with Rowe. He sees broken things and tries to fix them. I refuse to be his next rehabilitation project.
“No,” he says quietly. “You never ask anyone for help, do you? Not even when you’re drowning.”
“You know what’s funny? The fact that you still think I’m drowning. Maybe if you spent less time trying to heal broken things, you’d understand why no one wants your help in the first place.”
He nods slowly. “I wish I didn’t still care.” And then, softer, just for me. “But I do.”
Something in me cracks, but I glue it back together with rage.
He means well. He always does, and that’s the problem. The same steady presence that made him safe also makes him dangerous. Because Rowe escaped while I stayed chained to expectations, and I can’t forgive him for finding freedom and leaving me behind.
A low chuckle cuts through the tension. “I see you brought your claws tonight, love.”
My heart stops, then starts again too fast, as two months of silence fracture in a single breath.
Dom steps into view, lean and lethal in tailored black.
His gray eyes lock onto mine, amusement curling at the corners of that devastating mouth.
Of course he saw everything. Dominic Blackwood never misses the opportunity to watch someone bleed.
“Though I must say . . .” His gaze slides over me with slow, indulgent calculation, taking in the way crimson silk clings to every line of my body. “I forgot how exquisite you look when you’re going for the kill. Almost makes me wish I was your target.”
“She’s not a game, Dominic.” Rowe grits out. “You don’t get to break her and call it nostalgia.”
“Always so noble, Rowe.” Dom’s smile sharpens. “Tell me, how’s the view from that moral high ground? Must be lonely up there.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. His focus returns to me with unshakable ease. “Dinner’s about to be announced, and you’ll find your place card’s been moved to my table.”
I catch the way Rowe’s jaw clenches, and the slight tremor in his hands before he buries them in his pockets. But he says nothing. Of course he doesn’t. Because that’s Rowe, always taking the higher road, even as it bleeds him dry.
Dom extends his hand, the silver rings on his fingers catch the light. Those same rings that once left cold, shivering trails across overheated skin. “Come now, darling. For old time’s sake?”
I place my hand in his, a jolt sparking up my arm as he pulls me closer than necessary, his free hand settling low on my back.
But something’s off.
His touch is too careful, his fingers flexing once as if testing whether I’ll flinch. His usual confidence is there, but it feels like a mask stretched too tight.
“If you think this means I’ve forgiven you,” I murmur, hating the way my body still leans into him, aching despite the fury caged in my chest, “you’re more delusional than I remember.”
Dom laughs softly, the sound rumbling through every thread of contact between us.
“Oh, Aria.” He leans down, lips brushing my ear, and desire punches through me. “Forgiveness was never the point. You talking to me, looking at me like I still exist—that’s more than I’ve had in months.” His hand flexes at my back. “And I’ve been starving for it.”
As he leads me through the crowd, our reflection flickers across the enchanted mirrors, caught in shifting light and shadow. His gaze finds mine in the glass, dark with something that makes my pulse stutter.
“Welcome back to the game, love.” Dom’s voice is smooth, but his jaw is tight, and the tremor in his fingers betrays something rawer beneath the charm. Then he adds softer, “I wish to God we didn’t have to play.”
The words splinter something I’d been holding together with sheer spite. Dom’s still smiling, still touching me like we’re another scandal in motion, but there’s a crack beneath the performance.
But this is Dominic Blackwood. He says things like that sometimes. Deep things. Dangerous things. Then grins and acts like it was all part of the show. Maybe this is just a new twist on the same old game—the push, the pull, the carefully orchestrated unraveling.
He said it himself. He’s starving for my attention. Maybe that wasn’t a warning, but bait and I’m too messed up to tell the difference.
So I do what we always do. I smile. I play. I bleed prettily in public, and pretend it’s by choice.