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"𝐌𝐫. 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐨𝐯..." "𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧," he insists. "𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧, 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞." "𝐈'𝐦 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭," he says and takes a sip of champagne. "𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦 𝐈 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐱." "𝐈'𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝. 𝐎𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲." "𝐏𝐢𝐭𝐲." He says the word like it's a mildly interesting insect. "𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐋𝐲𝐫𝐚. 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠." He pauses. "𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬, 𝐲𝐞𝐬?" My stomach drops half an inch. That's not in my personnel file. I made sure of it. "𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤," I say carefully. "𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬." He takes another unhurried sip. "𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐰𝐧𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐞." The champagne goes still in my glass. I pawned that ring nine hours ago. I told no one. Not my mother, not a soul. "𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮..." I stop myself. Rebuild. If he wanted me rattled, he's going to have to work harder than that. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭? 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬. 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐧, 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝?" "𝐍𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫," he says. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥." "𝐈 𝐩𝐚𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰." Something shifts in his expression. Not amusement this time. Something closer to respect. "𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞." And there it is, under the warmth and the tailoring: this man doesn't meet people. He acquires information about them first. I should put down this glass and walk out of this building. I don't move. My breath catches, and God help me, the first thing my brain does is the math. Dad's surgery, scheduled instead of prayed about. Mom's voice on the phone sounding like herself again. I hate how much I want it. And that he can see it. Before I can respond, a silver-haired man in a charcoal suit materializes at Julian's elbow. An investor, judging by the Patek Philippe watch and his impatient stare. "𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧, 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐢 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐨..." "𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫." Julian doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't even look at him. But something shifts in his face, a coldness, flat and absolute, like a light switching off behind his eyes. The investor's hand trembles around his glass. I should be scared. Somewhere under the champagne, I think I am. Then Julian turns back to me, and the warmth returns as though it never left. His hand grazes the small of my back in a gesture so slight, I might have imagined it. I didn't imagine it. I will be thinking about it for a week. "𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞, 𝐋𝐲𝐫𝐚." It's not a request. I'm starting to suspect nothing out of this man's mouth ever is. He steps away but not far. Even as he speaks to the investor, Julian remains within arm's reach of me, and I catch him glancing back at me. Like he's keeping me. Like I'm already his. I should hate that. Instead, my pulse stutters like it recognizes something it shouldn't. The temperature in the room changes when Alexander crosses my line of sight, his expensive cuff links catching the light as he holds his glass of champagne. The man looks like he belongs on a magazine cover, and I know him well enough to understand that his appearance is intentional. In two years, I never once won the fight for bathroom mirror time. Not once. Sophia's beside him, of course. Slim, blonde, impeccable in a white sheath dress. White. To a gala. Sure. Why not? They move through the crowd with the ease of a couple that believes they belong anywhere. As I try to catch sight of Julian, Sophia spots me. She approaches deliberately, a bright but brittle smile on her face. Alexander follows, his expression somewhere between surprise and irritation. "𝐋𝐲𝐫𝐚," Sophia says as she draws near. "𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝." My pulse pounds, but I'm not about to let her or Alexander see me sweat. "𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞," I reply, keeping my tone light. "𝐈 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐬. 𝐈 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨." Alexander cocks his head to the side. "𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝? 𝐁𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐦?" "𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐄𝐎." He narrows his eyes slightly. "𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭? 𝐈'𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐄𝐎." "𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤," I reply. "𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬, 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦." "𝐀𝐡, 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝." He's trying to play it cool, but his jaw twitches. One of his tells. He'd be a disaster at poker, which explains a lot about the state of the company. Sophia steps closer and I can smell her perfume; the same Chanel No. 5 I'd often catch traces of on Alexander's clothes. My stomach turns. Two years, I told myself it was the dry cleaner's. The dry cleaner's. What a joke? "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲, 𝐋𝐲." She tilts her head, all sympathy. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞. 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝." Sharp enough to open skin. That's Sophia's real talent, the one she never puts on a résumé. But I've had three weeks to stop flinching, and I know exactly where her seams are. "𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐤 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐒𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐚. 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭." I let my eyes travel over her white sheath dress, slow, the exact way she likes to look at me. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐲, 𝐈 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭." Her smile tightens at the corners. "𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞," I continue, pleasant, conversational, loud enough for exactly no one but us, "𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐒𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐚. 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐣𝐨𝐛. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞." Her smile doesn't move, but something behind it does. Alexander's jaw does its little twitch. And then she stops bothering with deniable. "𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤," she says, her voice rising, carrying now, pitched for the tables around us. "𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤. 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬." The words land somewhere below my ribs. For one second, I'm back in Alexander's apartment, standing in front of his mirror in my underwear while he tells me I'd be so much hotter if I just tried a little harder. Then the second passes, and what floods in behind it isn't shame. It's fury. Because I love this fucking body. This body carried me out of that apartment. This body is wearing the hell out of this dress. And someday, if I'm lucky, this body will carry the loud, chaotic houseful of babies I've wanted since I was a little girl falling asleep to my grandmother's stories. Stretch marks were always part of the dream, not the price of it. Alexander knew that. During the breakup, he told me exactly what that dream made me in his eyes. She's not clever enough to have found that wound on her own. He handed her the map. And that's the part that steals my voice. Not the insult. The collaboration. "𝐏𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐲𝐫𝐚," she says, clucking her tongue into the listening silence. "𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞?" Her gaze drags down my body. Slow. Deliberate. An inventory taken in public. And then the laughter comes. Rippling out from the nearest tables, soft and cruel and hungry, the sound of people who've been waiting all night for someone to fall. Guests are staring now, phones half-raised, and I'm standing there doing violent arithmetic about which response gets me escorted out of my own event. My cheeks are hot. Alexander smirks. "𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞." Four words. Not loud. Not fast. Not even angry. The laughter dies so completely I can hear the string quartet falter mid-bar. I didn't hear Julian approach. He's simply there, between Sophia and me, like he's been there all along. Sophia asked if I still think I belong here. Julian just answered for the entire room: I'm here at the personal invitation of the most powerful man in it. Everyone else is a guest. I'm the reason he came. Find out what happens in Feral King. Available on Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H7G21ZDY