Chapter 2

Ember Vane POV

The penthouse was cold, possessing the kind of sterile chill that settles deep into the marrow and refuses to leave.

It was a glass cage suspended in the sky, overlooking a city that felt more like a prison than a home.

I walked through the living room, my eyes landing on the sleek Italian leather sofa where Julian used to lay his head on my lap, complaining about the headaches lingering from his concussion.

I picked up a crystal vase from the mantle.

It was a gift from his mother for our engagement, three years ago.

I opened my hand.

I let it drop.

It shattered against the marble floor, the sound sharp and violent, piercing the silence.

I didn't flinch.

I went to the bedroom and pulled a suitcase from the closet.

I wasn't packing clothes. I was packing the ghosts.

The framed photo of us at the hospital when he first stood up.

The watch he gave me for keeping his secrets.

The engagement ring I had taken off to wash my hands and never put back on.

I threw them all into a garbage bag.

I was purging him from the apartment, creating a vacuum where his suffocating presence used to be.

The front door beeped.

Julian walked in, smelling of expensive scotch and the cloying sweetness of another woman's vanilla perfume.

He stopped dead when he saw the shattered glass.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, stepping over the shards without sparing me a glance.

"Gravity," I said.

He looked up then, his brow furrowing.

"Are you drunk?"

"No," I said. "Just cleaning."

He sighed, loosening his tie with a sharp tug.

"I don't have time for your moods, Ember. The Resurrection Gala is tonight. The entire Commission will be there. I need you ready in an hour."

"I'm not going," I said.

Julian walked over to me, his presence looming like a storm front.

He was a massive man, built for violence, with hands that could crush a throat as easily as they could sign a check.

"You are going," he said, his voice low and laced with danger. "You are my fiancée. If you don't show up, it looks like weakness. It looks like I can't control my own house."

"Is that what I am?" I asked, meeting his gaze. "A prop to show you have control?"

"You are a Moretti," he said, his fingers digging into my chin. "Act like it."

I pulled away from his touch.

"Fine."

I wore a dress with a high back, a midnight blue silk that covered every inch of my ruined skin.

The Gala was held in the ballroom of the Plaza.

It was a sea of black tuxedos and diamond chokers, the air thick with the metallic scent of money and blood.

Julian gripped my elbow, steering me through the crowd like a prize heifer at auction.

He smiled at the Dons, shook hands with the Capos, and erased my existence entirely.

Estelle was there, of course.

She was wearing red, a plunging neckline that showed off her perfect, unblemished skin.

She was holding court near the balcony, flanked by Julian's sister, Jeanette.

Jeanette hated me.

She thought I was a gold digger, a nobody who clawed her way into the dynasty by being in the right place at the wrong time.

Julian left me to get a drink.

I drifted toward the balcony, needing air.

Jeanette and Estelle blocked my path.

"The nursemaid is out of her uniform," Jeanette sneered, swirling her champagne.

"She looks tired," Estelle said, her voice dripping with saccharine poison. "Maybe she should go home."

"I'm fine," I said, trying to step around them.

"Are you?" Jeanette asked. "Julian seems bored. He spent all morning with Estelle. Did you know that?"

"I know," I said.

"He needs a real woman," Jeanette said, stepping into my space. "Not a charity case."

I turned to leave, but Jeanette reached out.

Her fingers hooked into the back of my dress.

"Oops," she said.

She yanked.

The sound of silk tearing shrieked louder than the music.

The back of my dress ripped open from neck to waist.

The cold air hit my skin first, followed by the collective gasp that sucked the oxygen from the room.

I felt the eyes.

Hundreds of them.

Staring at the thick, ropy keloids that coiled across my back like melted wax.

The red, angry ridges of scar tissue that I had hidden for four years.

"Oh my god," someone whispered. "Look at her back."

"It's hideous."

Shame, hot and viscous, flooded my veins.

I spun around, clutching the front of my dress to keep it from falling.

Jeanette was smirking.

"Now everyone can see what Julian has to wake up to," she whispered.

My hand moved before I could think.

I slapped her.

It was a solid, sickening crack that silenced the ballroom.

Jeanette stumbled back, her hand flying to her cheek.

Estelle screamed.

"She's crazy! She attacked her!"

Estelle threw herself on the floor, knocking over a table of drinks, acting like I had shoved her.

"Julian!" Estelle shrieked.

Julian appeared through the crowd, his face thunderous.

He saw Jeanette holding her cheek.

He saw Estelle on the floor.

He saw me, standing there with my dress ripped open, my scars exposed to the world.

He didn't take off his jacket to cover me.

He didn't ask if I was okay.

He shoved past me, his shoulder hitting mine hard enough to make me stumble.

He knelt beside Estelle.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice frantic.

"She pushed me," Estelle sobbed into his chest. "She's jealous, Julian. She's dangerous."

Julian looked up at me.

His eyes were voids, stripped of anything human.

"Get out," he snarled.

"Julian," I whispered. "She ripped my dress."

"I said get out!" he roared. "Before I have security drag you out."

He turned back to Estelle, stroking her hair, whispering soothing words that were meant for me.

I turned around, the torn silk flapping against my burns, and walked out of the ballroom alone.