Vincent's shoulders stiffened.
And then I saw him.
Rion.
Dressed in a dark suit that made him look taller, colder—like a stranger cut from stone. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't the type. But there he was, standing near the edge of the floor with a drink in one hand and a look that could cut glass in the other.
His eyes found mine.
Everything inside me stilled.
Gone was the warm, teasing friend I remembered. This Rion looked… furious. Not at Vincent. At me.
He walked past, slow and measured, his gaze flicking to Vincent with something sharp and bitter behind it. Then it landed back on me—and stayed.
There was no smile.
No nod.
No softness.
Just a single, venomous glare like I'd betrayed something I didn't even know I was supposed to protect.
I felt Vincent's arm tighten around my waist.
"Stay close," he muttered under his breath.
My heart kicked harder. "What's going on?"
Vincent didn't answer. He didn't look at me.
That silence? It said too much.
But it still wasn't enough.
"Vincent," I pressed, voice lower, uncertain now.
He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to see the cold hardening in his jaw.
"Not now," he said.
Not now?
I looked back over my shoulder—Rion was gone, swallowed by the crowd like he'd never been there at all.
My breath caught.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
And for the first time since walking into this world—I felt like I'd wandered onto a battlefield, dressed for a fairy tale.
The crowd swallowed Rion whole, but his glare clung to my skin like something I couldn't scrub off.
Vincent said nothing. He simply held me tighter, like he could stop the questions rising in my throat by keeping my body close.
But it didn't work.
My thoughts spiraled.
Why was Rion here?
Why did he look at Vincent like that?
And more importantly—why did Vincent not react?
"You know him, don't you?" I asked again, trying to keep my voice even, but it trembled all the same.
Vincent's lips pressed into a thin line. "He's no one important."
That answer came too fast.
Too clean.
Like it had been rehearsed.
"Funny," I said, pulling slightly back from his hold, "he looked at you like he wanted to put a bullet in your skull."
Vincent didn't flinch. He just exhaled through his nose like he was rapidly losing patience. "Let it go."
"No," I said, firmer. "You brought me here. You put me in this world. If he's part of it—I deserve to know."
His jaw ticked.
And then—
"Come with me."
He didn't wait for my answer. He just took my hand and started pulling me through the crowd, past swirling gowns and laughter that suddenly felt paper-thin.
He led me out of the ballroom, down a hallway lined with opulent decor and soft-lit sconces, and through a door that clicked shut behind us.
We were alone.
A private lounge—dim, silent, the tension inside sharper than the chandelier light.
Vincent stood with his back to me for a second.
And then he turned.
"Do you trust me, Little De?" he asked, voice low. Controlled.
I stared at him. "I don't know, you're hard to read."
His eyes flickered.
He stepped closer.
"Rion Wilder is not who you think he is."
My blood went cold.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
"What?"
"He's not just your friend. He's the heir to one of the most violent Mafia families in the country." A beat. "And he's my rival."
The world tilted.
My hands clenched at my sides.
No. No, that couldn't—
That wasn't—
"That's not possible," I whispered.
But it was. It was—the look in Rion's eyes, the silence from my friends, Vincent's tension. It had all been there. I just hadn't looked close enough.
"You're lying."
Vincent stepped forward again. "I don't need to lie. He's the one who lied by omission. He's the one who pretended to be innocent while living in a glass house full of blood."
I shook my head. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was protecting you."
"From what?" I snapped. "The truth? Or the fact that I'm just a piece on a chessboard between the two of you?"
His expression cracked, just slightly. A flicker of regret.
"He's dangerous," he said quietly. "More dangerous than you know."
"So are you," I whispered.
The silence between us turned to ice.
Then a knock broke it.
Adriel stepped inside, tense. "We've got a problem. He's making moves. Tonight."
Vincent's face hardened. "Of course he is."
"What kind of moves?" I asked, even though I knew they weren't going to answer.
Vincent looked at me. That same unreadable expression back on his face. "This is where it gets real, Little De."
Adriel vanished as quickly as he came, leaving the door ajar behind him. Vincent didn't move—he just stood there, still and silent, like he was calculating the weight of everything that had just been said.
I didn't wait.
I walked past him, back into the hallway, the noise of the party returning like a slap. I needed air. I needed space.
I didn't get either.
Because the moment I turned the corner—
"Bloom."
His voice.
Rion.
I froze, the echo of his footsteps soft behind me. There was no one else in this hallway. Just velvet walls and tension thick enough to drown in.
"Rion," I said, turning slowly.
He wasn't smiling. Not even pretending now.
"I tried to warn you."
My heart kicked. "Warn me? You didn't say anything."
He stepped closer. "Because I hoped you'd see it for yourself. I thought maybe you'd remember who I am to you—what we were."
"I trusted you," I said, voice shaking now. "And you—what, you kept all of this from me?"
"I was protecting you," he said, and his voice was real now—raw, angry, honest. "Until you walked into his hands like you wanted to be devoured."
I blinked. "He didn't drag me."
"Of course he did. He never gives anyone a choice. That's how men like him operate—power, control, possession." His eyes darkened. "You're not safe with him."
My back hit the wall before I realized I was retreating. Rion wasn't touching me—but his words were pressing in, harder than any hand.
"You're not who I thought you were, you've changed...
I've always thought you were the only constant thing in my life aside from mom and the girls but you keep going off," I said, voice barely above a whisper.
"You think he's better than me?" he spat. "He's carved out of the same rot, Bloom. The only difference is, I knew who you were before he decided you were worth dressing in diamonds."
I flinched.
Rion stepped even closer. Inches now. "You don't belong to him."
"Don't say that," I said quickly. "I don't belong to anyone."
A muscle in his jaw jumped.
And then his tone changed. Quieter. Cold.
"I'm not going to ask again. Leave with me. Now. Before he drags you under."
"Why?," I looked at him, really looked.
And suddenly—I saw it.
All the cracks in the Rion I used to know. The boy who used to braid my hair on the porch. The friend who snuck me snacks during long summers. He was still in there, but now buried beneath this... man. This leader. This stranger.
"I'm not leaving with you," I said, steady.
Something in his eyes snapped.
"I won't watch him destroy you," he said, more to himself than me.
Then, just like that, he turned and walked down the hall.
This time, I didn't follow.
Because now I knew exactly what Rion was.
And worse—what I was to both of them.
A war line drawn in lipstick and pearls.
The click of Rion's shoes faded into silence.
He didn't look back.
Not once.
He left me there in that hallway, dressed like a dream and feeling like a ghost. My breath hitched in my chest, shallow and uneven, as if it didn't know what to do now that he was gone.
Everything felt wrong.
The dress was too tight. The pearls too cold. The heels suddenly a little too high, like they were holding me above a truth I wasn't ready to fall into.
I leaned back against the wall, pressing my palm to my stomach.
Rion Wilder.
My childhood friend.
The boy who used to steal candy with me from corner stores and swear we'd grow old laughing about it.
The same boy who'd just looked me in the eye like I was the biggest mistake he never got to prevent.
He said leave with me. He begged me.
But I didn't move.
And that silence?
It cost me something I couldn't name.
I closed my eyes, just for a second, just to breathe—
"You always freeze when you're hiding something."
The voice didn't come from in front of me.
It came from the shadows.
Low. Dangerous.
Vincent.
My eyes snapped open.
He stepped into view like he'd been carved out of the dim corridor, all dark fabric and darker eyes, watching me with a stillness that screamed.
I didn't speak. I didn't have to.
He already knew.
"You didn't walk away from him."
His voice wasn't loud.
That made it worse.
"He came to me," I said quietly.
"And you stayed," he replied, each word like the tick of a time bomb.
I opened my mouth to defend myself—but nothing came out.
Vincent took a step forward. I didn't back away, but I didn't move toward him either.
"Did he tell you?" he asked. "The truth?"
"No," I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
He stared at me. Searching.
"Then I will."
My pulse kicked.
"Rion Wilder. The golden boy. The friend. The shadow that never quite left."
I nodded slowly.
"Well, guess what," he said, his tone twisting. "He grew up to lead the family that's been trying to slit my throat for the last three years."
My blood turned to ice.
"You're lying."
"I don't lie to you," Vincent snapped. "Not about this."
I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry. "You knew all along?"
"I did."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I watched you," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't want to destroy your childhood, he was that perfect figure in your mind, I wanted to tell you. But I wasn't sure which side you were really on."
He's words lingered in the air.
"You think I'm the one who dragged you into this world?" Vincent said, stepping closer. "You were already in it. You just didn't know who put you here first."
The hallway spun.
I didn't know what was real anymore.
Vincent's breath was warm against my face now, close enough that if I swayed forward, we'd crash.
But I didn't.
And neither did he.
Instead, his voice dropped to a whisper.
"I won't lose you to him."
Not a threat.
A promise.
And that was somehow worse.
The silence between us wasn't heavy anymore.
It was sharp. Clean. Like someone had sliced the tension into neat little pieces and left them lying between us.
I didn't need to scream.
I didn't need to cry.
I just looked at him and said, "I want to go back to the mansion."
Vincent didn't flinch. He just gave the smallest nod, stepped back, and pulled his phone from his coat.
"Car's outside," he said, already walking toward the exit.
I followed.
Not because I was scared of him.
Not because I was done talking.
Because I wasn't.
---
The car slid into the street like it had done this a hundred times before—because it had. Everything in Vincent's world moved like that. Efficient. Silent. Dangerous underneath the leather and tinted glass.
We sat apart, a stretch of cold black leather between us. No music. No small talk.
Just my pulse ticking in my ears like a clock winding too tight.
I didn't look at him. I didn't need to. He wasn't the type to squirm under silence.
I was.
"You know," I said finally, keeping my eyes out the window, "I think I hate both of you."
He didn't speak.
I didn't expect him to.
"I hate Rion for keeping secrets. For pretending to be someone he wasn't," I continued. "And I hate you for doing the exact same thing."
Vincent shifted slightly, just enough to make his presence heavier.
"You both keep acting like you're protecting me," I added, "but it feels a lot more like you're playing with loaded pieces on opposite ends of a chessboard, and I'm just the queen everyone's aiming to sacrifice."
That got him.
His gaze slid over to me—slow, unreadable.
I turned to meet it.
"And before you say it," I said, "no, I'm not looking for an apology. I just want to know when exactly I stopped being a person and became a possession."
Vincent was quiet for a beat longer than necessary. Then, almost like an afterthought: "You were never a possession."
I laughed under my breath. "Really? Could've fooled me. You kidnapped me. Threw a contract in my face. Moved me into your house like a piece of furniture you hadn't quite decided where to place yet."
"And yet," he murmured, "here you are."
That shut me up—for a second.
Then I scoffed. "You know, I think that's the worst part. I stayed. I let myself believe maybe there was something more underneath all of this power play."
"There is."
"Then prove it."
He didn't flinch.
Instead, his voice dropped lower. Controlled. Like something old was stirring beneath it.
"This isn't the first time we've met, Blossom."
My heart paused.
"…What?"
He didn't look at me. Just straight ahead, calm and surgical.
"You were twelve. A summer function. Your father was entertaining three different families. One of them was mine."
My fingers curled slowly into the fabric of my dress.
"You wore a navy-blue dress," he continued. "Black shoes. Hair in two braids, one half coming undone by the time dinner started."
"You're making that up," I said automatically, but my voice faltered.
"I remember," Vincent said, tone flat. "You caught me picking roses off one of the centerpieces and accused me of trying to 'ruin the symmetry of the table.' Then you threatened to stab my hand with a butter knife."
That actually made me laugh—short, surprised. "Sounds like me."
"You meant it," he added. "You were terrifying."
"You were what, seventeen?"
"Five years older," he said. "Still are."
"So you've known who I was since the day we met again?" I asked, turning to him fully now. "Since that first night at the party?"
He nodded once. No theatrics. No denial.
"And you didn't say anything. Not a word."
"You didn't remember," he said simply. "And I wasn't sure it mattered."
"You didn't think it might make a difference?" I snapped.
"I didn't want to win you with history, Little De." His voice was low again. "I wanted you to choose me for who I am now."
The words hung between us like smoke in a locked room.
"You're not making it easy," I muttered.
He smiled, just barely. "I've never been easy."