Married to the enemies son

on the marble pavement, a rhythm steady and precise-like her. Her coat clung to her figure, soaked at the edges, but she

eras. Men in suits. Everyone pretending not to see the storm woman at th

e kind of cold elegance that screamed old money and control. But Ce

e R

agnetic but guarded, like he was constantly at war with something invisible. Or maybe it was just himself. When his eyes

voice low, unreadable. "Y

t didn't quite reach her

o gentle welcome. Just quiet tensi

till cruel behind his polished smile. He was the reason she was here. The reaso

h eyes that didn't flinch, didn't soften. She'd studied his file for weeks. Kn

ingers curled slightly at her sides. Every

ent was strange. "A union of power, a merger

an. And nothing a

ore, jaw tight. "This isn'

for love," she

th liars in

retched for a

just thickened with tension. Celeste followed Jace toward the long dining table, the space between them wide, yet cha

er lap, her expression unreadable. Across from them, Victor poured himself a glass of red w

is work," he said. "Appearan

filled the void. Every motion felt rehearsed-every smile from t

dn't touched his food. He was watching her now-not like a man curious about his fian

ove," he murmured under his brea

and calculated. "Same

perfect composure. She knew it then-he wasn

lready knew every inch of the place from floorplans she'd studied for months. Jace walked her to her

ing on the frame. "This doesn't h

ng his face for something human.

he door gently, leaving him i

ders dropped. Her breath trembled. Then she walked to the window, pulling back the curtain to stare

ttle

d onto it with a ring

could be

e distant, a low warning, like the earth itself sensed th

adow, half-ghost. She didn't recognize the version of herself looking back. The tailored dre

rage. Cold, qui

, folded tightly, was an old photograph. A man with kind eyes and an easy smile. Her father. Beside him, a you

she saw him, his hands were cuffed, his name dragged through the dirt by headlines funde

Monroe was a lie-one crafted in whispers and paid for with years of

broke through

re tucking it deep beneath the mattress. Then she stood, smoothing

the door, Jace s

The version of him that didn't speak at press conferences. This version

ou'd be awak

ly, letting him in. No e

ike it wasn't his but still belonged to him somehow.

, do you?" he asked

" she sa

nod

en who smile wit

something almost like amusement in the

n just fine h

breath. "I'm not

e understood that m

hen, without a word, turned and left

ill for a long mo

et, but he wasn't j

ost dangerou