Ember's POV

The champagne in my glass has gone warm, but the memory of Chace's blood on my hands is still unforgivingly ice cold.

I can't stop the flashback. It hits me right there in the ballroom, superimposing itself over the laughing faces of the Syndicate elite like a double exposure film.

Suddenly, I'm back at University. The diner where I worked double shifts to pay for architecture textbooks.

Chace used to sit in the corner booth, nursing a black coffee he never drank, watching me with eyes that felt like a physical touch.

He was dangerous even then. He drove an armored SUV but walked me home every night, leaving it parked three blocks away so he wouldn't scare me.

He played the part of the rough-around-the-edges boy from the wrong side of the tracks perfectly.

Then came the attack.

A rival gang. A drive-by meant for him on the edge of campus.

He didn't duck. He didn't flinch. He threw his body over mine.

I remember the sound of the bullet hitting flesh. It sounded like a wet slap against concrete. I remember the red stain spreading across his white t-shirt, the way he gritted his teeth and looked at me—not at his wound, but at me—to check for scratches.

"You're the only civilian I'll ever protect, Ember," he had rasped in the back alley clinic while the mob doctor dug the lead out. "You're mine to keep safe."

I believed him. God, I was hungry for that safety. I was a girl with a gambling addict father and a dead mother whose name was mud in this town. Chace offered me a fortress.

But fortresses are just prisons with nicer walls.

"Smile, Ember!"

Karyn's sharp voice drags me back to the present with the subtlety of a gunshot.

A photographer is in front of us. Karyn has looped her arm through mine, her grip bruising. She is pulling me into the frame.

"We need a picture with the friend," she says, emphasizing the word with a cruel tilt of her head.

The flash blinds me.

Chace steps in. He wraps one arm around Karyn's waist and pulls her flush against him. He kisses her.

It isn't a chaste peck. It is a claiming. A performance of power for the press.

He kisses her with the same mouth that told me he loved me this morning.

I feel bile rise in my throat.

I pull away, stumbling back. "I need... the ladies' room."

I flee toward the cloakroom, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the marble.

I don't make it to the bathroom. Chace catches me in the narrow hallway near the coat check.

He grabs my elbow, spinning me around. His grip is familiar, but now it burns.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hisses. "You're making a scene."

"I'm making a scene?" I laugh, a broken, jagged sound. "You just proposed to another woman in front of me, Chace. You gave her your mother's ring."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks annoyed, like I'm a child throwing a tantrum over a toy he refused to buy.

"It's business, Ember. You know how this works. The Warren territory borders ours. It's a merger. It doesn't change us."

"It changes everything!" I try to yank my arm free, but he holds tighter.

"Stop it," he commands. His voice drops an octave. "I'm doing this for us. With the Warren alliance, I secure the Boss seat. I'll have enough money to set you up anywhere. I already leased the apartment on 5th. The penthouse. It's yours."

"I don't want an apartment," I whisper. "I wanted you."

"You have me," he says, stepping closer, crowding me against the wall. He smells like expensive scotch and betrayal. "Karyn is just a title. She's the Mrs. on paper. You're my girl. You've always been my girl."

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a velvet pouch.

"Here," he says, pressing it into my hand. "For the trouble."

I open it. Diamond earrings. Heavy. Expensive.

Hush money.

"You think you can buy my silence?" I ask.

"I think I can buy your obedience," he says, his eyes darkening. "Be smart, Ember. You have nowhere else to go. Your father is drowning in debt. Your mother is dead. Without me, you're prey."

He's right. Or he was, five minutes ago.

Before I texted Keith Mosley.

"Let's go," he says, adjusting his cufflinks. "The car is waiting. Karyn is riding with us. Be polite."

The ride home is a funeral procession for my heart.

I sit facing them in the back of the stretch limo. Karyn is sipping champagne, her legs draped over Chace's lap.

"So," Karyn says, looking at me over the rim of her glass. "Here are the rules, Ember. Since Chace is sentimental."

She holds up a finger.

"One. You never call him after 10 PM. That's my time."

"Two. No public appearances unless I sanction them."

"Three. You don't get pregnant. If you do, you handle it."

Chace says nothing. He just watches the city roll by, his hand idly stroking Karyn's ankle.

"And Ember?" Karyn smiles. "You should thank me. Most wives would have you skinned. I'm letting you keep your feathers."

I look out the window at the blurred lights of the city.

The price is marriage.

I clutch my phone in the dark.

I'm ready to pay.

Ember's POV

The elevator doors slid open directly into the penthouse. Our penthouse.

Or at least, it was.

I stepped out, my heels sinking into the plush rug I had picked out last year. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood—my candles—still lingered in the air.

"God, it smells like a bakery in here." Karyn wrinkled her nose, stepping past me as if avoiding a bad smell. "We'll need to gut this place. It's too... domestic."

Chace followed her, loosening his tie. He didn't even look at me.

"Karyn will take the master suite," he said, his voice flat. "Move your things to the guest room, Ember."

I froze. "Excuse me?"

"The guest room," he repeated, finally meeting my eyes. There was no apology in them, just the cold pragmatism of a Capo issuing orders. "We need the master. It has the safe and the secure line."

"This is my home," I said, my voice trembling.

"It's my property," Chace corrected smoothly. "I pay the mortgage. I pay for the lights. I pay for the clothes on your back."

He walked past me toward the kitchen, pouring himself a drink without a backward glance.

I stood there, my skin burning with humiliation. Karyn was already walking toward our bedroom—my bedroom.

I turned and marched to the master suite. Karyn was standing by the bed, running her hand over the duvet cover I had bought for our anniversary.

"Quaint," she muttered. She looked at me with arched brows. "Oh, you're still here? Chace said guest room. Chop chop."

I grabbed my suitcase from the closet. I started throwing clothes into it. Not for the guest room. For the door.

I wasn't staying here. I would sleep on a park bench before I slept down the hall from them.

Chace appeared in the doorway, glass in hand. He watched me pack with detached amusement.

"Don't be dramatic," he said. "You're packing for the apartment on 5th? Fine. I'll have a driver take your boxes tomorrow. Just take what you need for tonight and go to the guest room."

He thought I was moving to the mistress apartment. He couldn't conceive of a world where I would actually leave him.

"I'm not going to the apartment," I said, zipping the bag with a decisive snap.

"Then where are you going?" He laughed. "Your dad's? He'll sell you back to me for a poker chip."

I didn't answer. I just walked past him.

He grabbed my arm. "Ember. Stop."

"Let go of me."

"You're staying," he commanded. "We have a breakfast meeting here in the morning. I need you to cook. Karyn doesn't cook."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You want me to make you pancakes after you bring your fiancée into our bed?"

"I want you to make the frittata I like," he said, his face hardening. "And stop calling it our bed. It's a piece of furniture."

Karyn walked out of the bathroom, now wearing a silk robe. My silk robe.

"Babe," she said to Chace, ignoring me completely. "Ho fame. Ordiniamo da quel posto francese?" (I'm hungry. Shall we order from that French place?)

"Sì, amore. Quello che vuoi," (Yes, love. Whatever you want.) Chace replied, switching effortlessly to Italian.

He looked at me, then back to her, and continued speaking in the rapid, lyrical language of our world—the language of business, of secrets, of family.

I understood Italian. I had learned it for him. But he pretended I didn't. He used it as a wall to shut me out, to remind me that I was a tourist in his country.

"Peasant food gives me heartburn anyway," Karyn said in English, glancing at the stove where the ingredients for our anniversary dinner still sat untouched.

She walked over to the wine rack and pulled out a bottle.

My breath caught. It was a vintage red. One of the few bottles Chace kept for special occasions.

It was also a blend heavy with sulfites. I was severely allergic. Chace knew that. We had spent a night in the ER three years ago with him holding my hand because of a bottle just like it.

"Open this one," Karyn said, handing it to him.

Chace took the bottle. He uncorked it without hesitation. He poured two glasses.

He didn't even look at the label. He had forgotten. Or worse, he didn't care if I stopped breathing, as long as his new Queen was happy.

He handed a glass to Karyn. They clinked rims.

I let go of my suitcase handle. I didn't need clothes. I needed air.

I walked to the front door.

"Here," Chace called out. He didn't turn around. He just tossed something onto the marble entry table. It landed with a plastic clatter.

His black Amex card.

"Go buy yourself something pretty," he said. "Cool off. Come back when you're ready to behave."

I opened the door.

As the latch clicked, I heard Karyn giggle. Then I heard the sound of glass being set down, followed by the soft, wet sound of a kiss.

"Bedroom," Chace growled, his voice thick with lust.

I slammed the door shut, severing the sound. But the silence in the hallway was louder. It screamed.

Ember's POV

I walked for hours. The city air was biting, a razor wind slicing through the thin silk of my dress, but I couldn't feel it. I was numb, frozen from the inside out.

My phone buzzed against my palm.

Uncle Sal.

My uncle was a Capo in a different crew, a man who had only "welcomed" me back into the fold when Chace began his meteoric rise. He was a parasite, feeding off whatever power he could graze.

I answered.

"Ember," his voice was gravel grinding on smoke. "There is a Sit-Down arranged. Tomorrow night. The Onyx Club. You need to sign the papers."

"What papers?" I asked, my voice a hoarse croak.

"The transfer," he said, his tone devoid of empathy. "Mosley contacted us. He's taking your father's debt. And he's taking you. We finalized the terms an hour ago. You're marrying the Don."

It was real. I had done it. I had sold myself to save a ghost.

"I'll be there," I said.

"Good girl. Don't embarrass us." The line went dead.

I was staring blankly at the neon cross of a 24-hour pharmacy when my phone vibrated again.

Chace.

My thumb hovered over the decline button, trembling. But then a text popped up.

Help. Sick. Onyx Club. Can't drive.

Old habits don't just die hard; they scream. For four years, I was the designated savior. I was the one who picked him up when the whiskey drowned him, the one who cleaned the vomit and the blood.

Panic, cold and sharp, flared in my chest. If he was at the Onyx Club, he was exposed. Vulnerable. A target.

In a heartbeat, I forgot the betrayal. I forgot the wedding dress. I just remembered the man who had once taken a bullet for me.

I hailed a cab, practically throwing myself inside. "The Onyx Club. Fast."

I sprinted past the bouncers who knew my face, ignoring their surprised looks. I pushed through the heavy double doors, instantly assaulted by the thumping bass and the disorienting strobe lights of the VIP section.

"Chace!" I screamed, my voice swallowed by the music.

Then I found him.

He wasn't sick. He wasn't hurt.

He was lounging on a velvet couch, a bottle of vodka swinging loosely in his hand, laughing his head off.

Karyn was perched on his lap, facing him, her legs wrapped possessively around his waist.

They were surrounded by his soldiers—men I had cooked Sunday dinners for, men I had laughed with. They were all cheering.

Chace looked up. His eyes locked onto mine, and his grin widened. It wasn't a smile of relief; it was sloppy, cruel, and triumphant.

"See?" he shouted to his men, gesturing at me with the bottle. "I told you! Loyal like a dog. Whistle and she comes running."

The soldiers roared with laughter.

I stood frozen, panting, my hair windblown and tangled, my mascara likely carving black tears down my cheeks. I must have looked like a wreck. A desperate, pathetic wreck.

"You said you were sick," I said, my voice barely audible over the beat.

"I am sick," Chace slurred, his eyes heavy. "Sick of you moping. Come here. Join the party."

Karyn turned her head, looking at me with predatory amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"We're playing King's Cup," she purred. "Chace just drew a card. But since he's busy..." She ground her hips against him, staking her claim. "...you can take his turn."

"I'm leaving," I said, spinning on my heel.

"Stay!" Chace barked. The command cracked like a whip, freezing my feet. "Don't disrespect me in front of my men, Ember."

I turned back slowly. "You're disrespecting yourself."

Karyn reached for the deck of cards scattered on the table. She flipped one over with a flourish.

King.

"King's rule," she announced, her voice cutting through the noise. She pointed a manicured finger at me. "The King orders the peasant to... entertain the troops."

She shifted her gaze to a soldier named Marco. A man who had always looked at me a little too long, with eyes that made my skin crawl.

"Marco," Karyn said. "Go touch her. Just a little. Let's see if she's soft."

Marco hesitated, glancing at his boss.

I looked at Chace, pleading silently. "Chace. Stop this."

Chace shrugged, taking a swig of vodka. "Karyn drew the King, babe. Hierarchy. She outranks you."

He wasn't going to stop it. He was going to watch.

Marco stood up, a smirk playing on his lips as he stepped toward me.

"Don't touch me," I warned, backing up until I hit a table.

"Or what?" Marco laughed, closing the distance. "Daddy's not here to save you."

"Drink the punishment cup," Karyn called out, bored. "If you don't want to play, drink the center cup. That's the rule."

I looked at the center of the table. A large glass stein filled with a vile mixture of everything everyone had been drinking. Beer. Vodka. Whiskey.

And the red wine. The cheap stuff. The kind loaded with sulfites.

I looked at Marco, his hand reaching out. I looked at Chace, who was nuzzling Karyn's neck, bored with my distress.

Poison or him. It wasn't a choice.

I grabbed the stein.

"Cheers," I whispered.

I drained it.

The liquid was sludge, burning all the way down. It tasted like bile, ash, and regret.

I slammed the glass onto the table, the sound cracking through the tension.

Marco stopped, impressed. "Damn, girl."

I turned to leave.

I made it three steps before my throat began to seize.

It started as a tickle, then instantly morphed into a vice grip crushing my windpipe. My chest tightened as if bound by iron bands. My vision swam.

I stumbled, my legs turning to water.

"Ember?" I heard a soldier say, his voice sounding miles away.

I fell to my knees. The floor was sticky with spilled alcohol.

I couldn't breathe. No air. I needed air.

I clawed at my throat, my nails digging into my skin, trying to tear away the invisible hands choking me.

Through the haze, I saw Chace stand up. He looked annoyed, swaying slightly.

"Get up, Ember. You're not that drunk."

I collapsed onto my side, cheek pressed against the grime. Darkness was creeping in at the edges of my vision, a vignette closing the scene.

The last thing I saw was Karyn rolling her eyes, and Chace looking down at me, not with concern, but with the inconvenience of a man forced to clean up a spill.