Chapter 4 #2
I shoot back my third tequila and muster up some bravado for what I am about to do. I wiggle the compact and lipstick. “I’m going to the Princess room. You guys gonna dance?”
Kiara’s eyes light up and she shoots to her feet, dragging her current man-meat with her. “Come on, handsome. I want you to grind on me!” Kiara pulls her date to his feet and Calla does the same with hers.
I step away from the table without another glance at my friends and follow the two women with red envelopes clutched in their perfectly manicured hands. They move with purpose, weaving through the crowd of beautiful people sipping expensive cocktails as if they know exactly where they’re going.
And I suppose they do.
The black curtain appears at the far end of the lounge, heavy velvet that swallows light. The women slip through without hesitation, and I pause at the threshold, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
Beyond this curtain requires a membership. I know this. Everyone knows this. The Scarlet Thorn has layers, and the deeper you go, the more exclusive—and expensive—it becomes.
I should turn back. Go find Calla and Kiara. Pretend I’m fine until my father’s enforcers show up to take me back to my cage. Smile through the wreckage of my life for another hour before my father’s men drag me back to my gilded prison.
But then one of the women glances over her shoulder and holds the curtain aside. She doesn’t ask for my membership card or question whether I belong here. She simply waits with the casual patience of someone who assumes I’m one of them.
So I follow. Because tonight I am done being the obedient daughter who asks permission.
The corridor beyond is a study in darkness and decadence.
Matte black walls stretch before us, scattered with gold leaf that catches the dim lighting from overhead chandeliers like fallen stars trapped in midnight.
Our heels click against black marble, the sound echoing in rhythmic percussion as we descend deeper into the belly of the Scarlet Thorn.
No one speaks. The silence feels sacred somehow, like we’re entering a sacred place.
At the end of the corridor stands a single red door with gold handles that gleam like they’ve been polished by devoted hands. The first woman slips inside, and my breath catches. She’s only gone a second before she emerges, tucking her clutch under her arm with a satisfied smile.
The woman in front of me is next. I can’t help the quiver of hope that skates over my nerve endings as I watch her disappear through that crimson threshold.
I press a hand to my stomach, willing it to settle. But my body hasn’t listened to me in years. I don’t know why it would obey my command now.
The door opens and the second woman steps out, her expression serene, almost peaceful. Like she’s just confessed her sins and been granted absolution.
“Excuse me,” I say before she can pass. “Do you happen to know where I can get a red envelope?”
She pauses, her gaze sweeping over my white dress with something like pity. “You have to bring one, sweetie. Otherwise…sorry.”
And with that, she’s gone. Her heels fade down the corridor, leaving me alone in the empty corridor.
I stand there for a moment, frustration burning through my veins. Of course there’s something that is gonna go wrong. Story of my entire life—always one locked door away from what I need.
But I’ve come too far to turn back now.
I push through the red door and step into a room that steals my breath.
Candles line the perimeter, their flames dancing against walls painted the deepest black I’ve ever seen. But here, the gold leaf has been replaced with swirls of scarlet red that twist and curl across the dark canvas like blood flowing through midnight veins. It’s captivating.
I force myself to refocus on the center of the room where a large podium stands.
Atop it sits a red box with a golden lock securing the latch—one of those antique pieces you’d find in an estate sale, lovingly preserved and polished until it gleams. The whole space radiates an aura of decadent sin, of secrets whispered and wishes granted to those brave enough to ask.
My eyes sweep the room, searching for anything I can use. A pen. Paper. A spare envelope tucked in some corner.
Nothing. Just candlelight and shadows and that beautiful box.
I place the borrowed makeup beside the box, my mind racing. I need something red. Something I can write on.
My gaze drops to my shawl but there’s no way I’ll uncover my back or shoulders. Then I look to my dress. My mother’s perfect white silk confection with its delicate pearls and crystal chips. The dress she chose to present me as a sacrifice to Magnus Sterling.
A dark smile curves my lips.
I reach down and grip the fabric near the hem where the material pools in excessive folds. The silk resists for a moment, then gives way with a satisfying rip. I tear away a rectangle large enough to write on, the sound of destruction echoing through the sacred space like a battle cry.
The red lip liner feels like a weapon in my hand as I smooth the silk against the polished surface of the box’s lid. My fingers tremble with fear from the magnitude of what I’m about to do.
I press the liner to the fabric and let my desperation flow.
I wish to be free of my father. Free of Magnus Sterling.
Free of the cage I’ve been trapped in my entire life.
I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care who helps me.
I just want to choose my own path for once.
Please. I’m begging anyone who reads this.
Save me from the life they’ve planned for me.
My only available currency is my virginity. - Persia Fiore
I pause. Can I put that on there? Should I put that on there? Do I care?
Fuck.
I look at the words written in a very permanent red. I guess it’s too late to worry about it now.
God, what has come of my life? I hang my head and toss the lip pencil aside. I can’t submit this. What would the person who reads this think of me?
The words blur as tears spill down my cheeks, ruining what’s left of my makeup. The betrayal I feel cuts so much deeper than any physical beating my father has ever inflicted. The scars on my back will heal. But the way he’s simply discarding me...
Being passed off like livestock to fix his debts? Being handed to a monster who looks at me like I’m already his property?
The wound tearing my heart in half will never close.
I fold the silk carefully, my tears spotting the delicate fabric and slide it into the cut out slot.
For a long moment, I simply stand there, my palm pressed against the cool surface of the box, wondering what happens now. Do I go back to my friends and pretend I didn’t just pour my soul onto a scrap of my engagement dress? Do I wait for my father’s men to find me? Do I—
“What has such a beautiful woman crying?”
My heart rate spikes. I draw in a sharp breath and spin on my heel, nearly losing my balance on the marble floor.
An elegant man stands in the doorway. And he is anything but ordinary. My brows pull together when I find his dark, captivating gaze with mine.
He’s danger wrapped in an impeccably tailored suit that does nothing to hide the predatory grace of his frame.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pushed back from a face that belongs on a Renaissance painting of fallen angels.
Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass.
And those gray eyes. I inhale sharply. Dark as sin with flecks of silver that catch the candlelight. Mesmerizing.
Electricity skates over my senses, ice and fire melding together until I can’t tell if I’m freezing or burning alive. My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly, violently awake.
And then his scent reaches me, replacing the cloying sweetness of roses that has saturated my nostrils for hours with something warm and exotic. Cedar and smoke and raw male power that makes my knees threaten to buckle.
He moves into the room with the unhurried confidence of a man who owns every space he enters. The candlelight plays across his features, casting shadows that only make him more devastating.
“Please tell me, little dove.” His voice is velvet over gravel, the kind of voice that could convince you to do terrible things and thank him for the privilege.
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
“Tell me, and I’ll bring you the heart of the person who has caused your tears. ”
The words should sound like a line. A practiced seduction from a man who probably collects women the way other men collect watches.
But the way he’s looking at me—like he means every syllable, like he would actually carve out a beating heart and lay it at my feet if I only asked—makes my breath catch.
I swipe at my damp cheeks with the back of my hand, suddenly aware of how I must look. Mascara-streaked. Red-eyed. Standing in a torn dress in the middle of a secret room where desperate women come to beg for miracles. And a room I have not paid to enter.
“That’s quite an offer,” I manage, and I’m proud that my voice doesn’t crack. “Do you make it to all the crying women you find lurking in dark rooms?”
Something flickers in those midnight eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or appreciation.
His smile is slow, sexy as fuck, and has my insides quivering.
For one night I wish I could forget who I am.
He moves toward me with the unhurried confidence of a man who has never been denied anything in his life.
Each step is deliberate, measured, like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
“Only the ones brave enough to rip apart their own dresses to write wishes on expensive silk.” His gaze drops to the ragged hem of my gown, and when it returns to my face, there’s a new heat there that makes my stomach clench.
“That takes a particular kind of desperation. The kind I find... intriguing.”