BEATRICE'S POV
Floor carved from the most expensive marble in the world. Curtains stitched by hands that will never attend a party like this. Persian carpets soft under my heels. Champagne fountains at the center of the grand ballroom, bubbling quietly like money does — constantly, and without apology.
Women in silk and satin, diamonds and rubies catching chandelier light. Men in Tom Ford and Brioni, black tie and watches that speak louder than they ever will.
Wine cools in my hand — sweet, fruity — as I stand in my corner, back to the wall, watching everything.
The way a man's hand slips behind a woman who isn't his wife while his wife stands right next to him, excitedly telling a story she thinks he's listening to. How someone's envious gaze lingers a beat too long on a young family — a handsome man with his beautiful wife and a toddler daughter balanced on his hip.
I used to think parties like this would feel like an accomplishment. Like arriving. But these people don't seem any better than the ones I grew up around — just dressed better and speaking softer.
I sigh, looking down at my wine.
Lia, that absolute traitor, left me with a half-empty glass to go socialize with people she'll never speak to again. I don't mind socializing — I'm good at it. But after a lifetime of being the one who starts every conversation and carries every silence, I've grown tired of performing the butterfly.
Not that I want too many people in my life. The more people get involved, the more complicated everything becomes.
The doors open wide.
The noise dies like someone pressed mute on the entire room. I swirl the wine in my glass, eyes tracking each figure as they enter. I did my homework before tonight — studied every name, every face, every known alliance. Just in case I needed to avoid trouble.
Trouble walks in wearing a tailored grey suit.
Killian Vanderbilt — silver hair, grey eyes, shoulders broad enough to make the doorframe feel small. Forerunner to CEO of Vanderbilt Weapon Manufacturing Corp. The Vanderbilts started in real estate. Five decades ago, they set their sights on weapons, and their alliance with the Laurent family shifted into something far heavier than property deals. No wonder he's best friends with Adrien Aurélien Laurent.
Behind him, his younger sister. Julia Vanderbilt — porcelain skin, same silver hair and grey eyes as Killian, soft features that belong on a Renaissance painting. I'm a woman, but I'll admit it — if I weren't interested in men, those perfect assets of hers would be a problem.
Next, the Rothenburg siblings.
Benedict Rothenburg enters first, with that infamous charming smile stitched into his face like it came with the suit. Perfect London aristocracy from cufflinks to shoes. Deep blue eyes that hide more than secrets. The Rothenburgs control two-thirds of the luxury art market, own fashion houses, entertainment agencies, and half the newspapers in Britain. Culture protectors, they call themselves. Lobbyists in disguise as philanthropists is what they actually are.
Beside him — his half-brother. Lucian Rothenburg, the Bastard of Rothenburg. First three buttons undone, messy blonde hair like someone's hands have been in it recently, lazy steps that somehow make carelessness look intentional. Same deep blue eyes as Benedict, but everything else is the opposite. The rake of high society. The least likely person to ever inherit Rothenburg.
Julia smiles shyly when Lucian waves at her. Killian's glare could melt steel.
Murmurs ripple louder when the eldest daughter of Ashcombe enters.
Olivia Ashcombe — red silk dress, amber eyes that turn almost golden when the chandelier light catches them, doll-like face that doesn't match the ruthlessness required to fight your own brother for control of Europe's largest tech empire. She greets the Prime Minister before joining the others, casual as anything.
"Seems like Olivier Ashcombe didn't come? Must be true — they're saying he's closing a massive deal in Taiwan."
Olivia. Olivier. Their parents didn't even try to name them differently.
My wine glass is empty by the time the temperature in the room drops three degrees.
Theodore Schweitzer walks in.
The Schweitzers — the old Swiss banking dynasty. Discreet in a way that means nobody outside their inner circle truly knows what they do, other than the fact that after the Laurent family, they have the capacity to start a war before sunrise and end it by sunset. Three hundred years of secrets, buried so deep that even rumors come out whispering.
Theodore Schweitzer became patriarch at twenty-two. At thirty-two, he is regarded as the most dangerous man in upper society. Some say he killed his father and step-siblings to get there.
His close-set violet eyes look almost violent in their stillness. I thought Adrien Laurent gave off a dangerous presence — but this man reminds me of the old legends. The Devil was never the ugliest in the Garden of Eden. He was God's favorite.
Theodore tilts his head up. I follow his gaze.
Adrien is standing on the second floor, one hand tucked inside his pocket, the other holding a champagne glass. Looking down at Theodore with the particular calm of a man who knows he has the higher ground — literally and otherwise.
Their eye contact could set the room on fire. If it were possible to kill someone with a gaze, this ballroom would already be a battlefield.
Adrien's lips curve into a small, arrogant smirk. He tilts his champagne glass toward Theodore — a toast that isn't a toast. A greeting that's really a challenge.
It pisses Theodore off. I can see it in the way his jaw shifts, barely perceptible, before his expression smooths back to nothing.
And then — as if there's a third eye at the back of his head — Adrien looks down at me.
No. Not again.
My glass trembles slightly. Do I break eye contact or hold it? His gaze pins me like a specimen under glass, and my heart is beating so hard I'm genuinely concerned about a medical diagnosis.
Theodore frowns. Follows Adrien's gaze.
Both of them are now looking at me.
I want to dig a grave and climb into it.
Adrien blinks slowly, as if reading my face frame by frame. Then Lucian calls Theodore's name from across the room, and someone pulls Adrien aside on the second floor.
My shoulders drop dramatically. I let out a sigh so deep it could have come from my ancestors.
I shouldn't be looking around like a security camera. This is a party. I'm supposed to be enjoying expensive wine and pretending I belong.
In this rich man's world, I'm just an accountant. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth the attention of the two most powerful young men in the room.
Yet this unsettled feeling in my stomach won't leave. Heavy and warm and impossible to name.
Must be the wine. I nod to myself. Perfectly logical conclusion.
Of course it's the wine.