015

Katherine Harrington The ballroom was far larger than I had expected. Even before we crossed fully through the gilded double doors, light spilled over us in warm cascades from crystal chandeliers suspended high above like captive constellations. The marble beneath my heels gleamed so brightly I could almost see the reflection of my own black gown gliding over it. Music floated through the hall in elegant strings—soft enough not to interrupt conversation, yet persistent enough to make every movement feel choreographed. Perfume lingered thickly in the air: roses, amber, expensive wine, polished wood, candle wax. Everything glittered. Everything shone. Everything looked as though it belonged in one of those impossibly luxurious magazines women flipped through while waiting in salons. And somehow, absurdly, I was walking into the center of it on the arm of the most intimidating man I had ever met. My fingers tightened around Luciano’s sleeve. His military uniform was cool and immaculately pressed beneath my palm, every line of him severe and controlled. Even without looking directly at him, I could feel the shift his presence caused in a room. It was not the kind of attention that followed celebrities or politicians. It was heavier. Quieter. Like gravity itself had entered with us. People moved aside before he reached them. Voices lowered. Heads bowed. No one needed to announce his importance; the room reacted to him the way forests probably reacted to storms—instinctively, with the understanding that resistance would be pointless. Unfortunately for me, I was attached to this storm. I reminded myself of everything the instructor had drilled into me all day. Shoulders back. Do not rush. Smile, but not too much. Look at people as if you are granting them a moment, not begging them to like you. Breathe. I breathed. “Relax,” Luciano murmured beside me, so low only I could hear. I turned my head just slightly. “Easy for you to say. You look like you were born threatening people.” “I was.” I stared at him. He didn’t even blink. I narrowed my eyes. “I genuinely cannot tell when you’re joking.” “That sounds like a personal problem.” I almost snorted. The fact that he could stand there looking like a military execution and still speak in those dry, unhelpful sentences was deeply irritating. Also… weirdly comforting. I hated that. The first cluster of nobles approached us almost immediately. Three older men in dark formal coats, one jeweled woman with silver threaded through her hair, all of them bowing with varying levels of practiced grace. “Good evening, Tyrant Luciano.” Luciano gave one curt nod. Their eyes shifted toward me. There it was—that pause. Just a second too long. A fraction too frozen. The woman’s smile faltered before she recovered it. “And this lovely lady must be…” Training. I straightened slightly, softened my smile, and answered before Luciano could. “Katherine Zarkov,” I said smoothly, pleased when my voice came out level instead of breathless. “Luna to Tyrant Luciano Zarkov. Good evening.” All four of them stared. Not politely. Not admiringly. Stared. The eldest man actually blinked twice, as though trying to correct his vision. Then they bowed again in a strange hurried shuffle of limbs and moved aside with murmured pleasantries that sounded suspiciously like panic. I kept smiling until we were several paces away. Then I leaned toward Luciano. “Was that normal?” “Yes.” I looked at him sharply. “You’re lying.” “Yes.” I nearly stumbled. “You admit that so casually?” “You asked a question.” “You are exhausting.” “I’ve been called worse.” We moved deeper into the hall. More guests. More bows. More introductions. And with every single interaction, the same unsettling pattern repeated. Polite greeting. Eyes on Luciano. Eyes on me. Then— shock. Sometimes hidden well. Sometimes not hidden at all. A younger woman near the champagne fountain audibly gasped into her glass. One military officer looked at me, looked away, then looked back so fast he nearly twisted his neck. Two men whispered behind raised hands the second we passed. An older lady dropped her fan. At first I thought perhaps this was simply because Luciano had never appeared publicly with a woman before. Maybe I was being stared at because everyone wanted to know who the Tyrant’s mysterious companion was. That explanation should have comforted me. It didn’t. Because this didn’t feel like curiosity. Curiosity had warmth. This had… disturbance. Recognition. Like people weren’t merely trying to place me. Like some part of them already had. I smiled through another introduction while unease slowly coiled tighter beneath my ribs. Governor. General. Provincial Elder. Names floated past me in elegant meaningless clusters. I nodded when appropriate. Extended greetings. Repeated my new title. But my awareness had begun splintering. I was too conscious now of the eyes. Everywhere. On my face. My hair. My hands looped through Luciano’s arm. On me. I leaned toward him again, keeping my smile fixed. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” “No.” “Is my dress ripped?” “No.” “Then why does everyone look like they’ve seen a murder?” Luciano glanced down at me. His storm-gray eyes gave away nothing. “Because some of them have.” My smile almost slipped. I turned my head toward him fully. “What is that supposed to mean?” He looked ahead. Kept walking. Did not answer. My stomach tightened. I hated cryptic men. Especially cryptic ancient tyrants who seemed to know things about me they dispensed in tiny emotionally damaging fragments. Before I could press him further, another woman intercepted us. She was older—perhaps late fifties—with pearls at her throat and trembling champagne fingers. Unlike the others, she did not bow immediately. She simply stared at me. Her eyes widened. The color drained from her face. “Katherine Harrington?” she whispered. I kept my expression smooth. “I’m sorry,” I said politely. “Should I know that name?” The woman made a tiny strangled noise. Luciano stepped in before she could say anything else. His gloved hand settled at the small of my back—firm, grounding. “You know Lady Zarkov now,” he said. His tone was perfectly civil. Which somehow made it far more terrifying. The woman bobbed into an awkward bow and retreated so quickly she nearly collided with a passing waiter. Whispers erupted behind us almost instantly. Not loud. But enough. Enough for me to hear my own name scattered like sparks through the crowd. Katherine. Harrington. Impossible. Alive? I stopped walking. Luciano stopped because I had. I looked up at him. “Alive?” I repeated quietly. “Why would they say alive?” His jaw shifted once. That was all. But it was enough to tell me he knew exactly why. “Luciano.” No answer. “Luciano,” I said again, lower this time. “Why do these people look at me like I climbed out of a grave?” He held my gaze for one long second. Then he said, very calmly— “Because to some of them, you did.” A cold wave slid down my spine. Before I could demand an explanation, movement across the ballroom caught my eye. Near the far side of the hall, beside a tower of champagne glasses and a cluster of elaborately dressed guests, stood a pregnant blonde woman in silver silk. She was staring at me. No. Not staring. Glowering. Her face had gone so pale it looked powdered. One manicured hand gripped the stem of her glass with enough force that I half expected it to snap. There was hatred there. Raw. Immediate. And for reasons I could not explain, something in my body recoiled before my mind had formed a thought. A deep instinctive revulsion. I frowned. “Who,” I murmured, still watching her, “is the pregnant woman glaring at me like she wants me professionally embalmed?” Luciano’s gaze followed mine. His mouth flattened. “An inconvenience,” he said. I turned to ask what that meant— and then the crowd shifted. Someone moved away from the blonde woman. A man stepped into clear view beside her. Dark suit. Hazel eyes. Familiar voice that I had heard only through a screaming phone speaker. The second I saw his face— something in my skull detonated.