VICTOR

  She was disgustingly perfect.

  Everything about her reeked of privilege, of breeding, of a kind of beauty that didn't have to try.

  That fucking beautiful face.

  Victor cursed under his breath, swirling the last of his champagne. Across the ballroom, Corin Clarendon stood at the eye of her own storm, surrounded by the same court of buffoons that always gathered where the Clarendon name glittered.

  Discarded wives with diamonds too heavy for their brittle necks, desperate to feel relevant again. Ambitious men whose fortunes had peaked two mergers ago, now circling her like moths, trying to warm themselves on her father's empire—and maybe her.

  No one would be stupid enough to touch her. Not here.

  Corin did not take slights. She might be graciously smiling, but she noted everything that bordered on offense, lingering looks longer than what she allowed, jests done in poor taste, every lick of the lip, every sneer. Anyone caught would find their stocks crumbling when the market opened the next day.

  That was the way she was, like her father. They didn't announce executions; they killed in the night, like assassins, and kept their hands clean.

  But you couldn't stop them from looking. From imagining.

  And Victor grew up with men like them. He knew exactly what went through their minds—worse than what went through his.

  That was the thing about her.

  She made men want. Even the ones who hated her.

  Especially the ones who did.

  He took another slow sip, letting the bitterness sit on his tongue like confession.

  The speeches began. The orchestra quieted. Lights dimmed to a halo around the dais where Corin stood, poised and luminous. She spoke about legacy, philanthropy, the burden of privilege. All the beautiful lies the wealthy told themselves to sleep well.

  But even as she spoke, her eyes kept flicking through the crowd, always returning, however briefly, to where Lucien stood.

  He had just finished making a spectacle of himself on the shooting range—six targets, no misses, applause loud enough to reach the dormitories. The donors had eaten it up. So had Corin Clarendon, though she'd hidden it behind that perfectly sculpted smile of hers.

  He wasn't surprised by his performance. Taylor's reports had been coming days before whenever Corin was with them: improvement exponential, precision unnerving.

  It wasn't by accident. She wanted them to know. Her way of making the players up the ante. She was ruthless that way.

  Victor could almost admire her for it. If he didn't want to strangle her first.

  The applause thundered through the hall, when she finally raised her glass.

  Victor didn't join in. He drained the last of his champagne and gestured lazily for a glass of something stronger than Billard-sanctioned sparkling drinks. The waiter hesitated, recognizing him, then obeyed.

  The Vandercourt name had that effect—equal parts awe and threat.

  He drifted through the crowd with his glass of contraband that no one dared to scold, not even the headmaster, though his scowl never escaped him.

  Victor was the school's happy vandal. He had spent years cultivating a reputation for carelessness, but until the next ranking, everyone had to conduct themselves according to his liking.

  He's the current Holder. The Clarendon pin glinted at his lapel, the golden protection he earned in the previous term after outscoring Rothwell and Alistair both. People had been shocked when he'd topped the exams. It wasn't supposed to be him.

  But carelessness was just the costume. The trick was wearing it well enough that no one noticed you know how to play too.

  Victor was halfway through his second glass when he heard them.

  Two donors—men of the soft-bellied, silver-haired variety—leaning far too close to each other over the dessert table. Their voices were the kind meant for gossip: hushed enough to sound illicit, loud enough to be overheard.

  "She's the very image of her mother," one murmured.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The other gave a nervous glance toward the chandelier. "Careful," he said quietly. "You know the rule."

  The rule.

  Victor had forgotten about that one, or maybe just pretended to. At Billard, or in any room with the Clarendon crest stamped on the cutlery, there were a hundred rules that no one wrote down. This one was simple: You don't talk about Belize Clarendon.

  "She even holds her glass the same way," one of the men whispered. "Do you remember Belize at the Geneva Summit? God, she—"

  Victor moved before he could stop himself.

  He appeared at their side, all teeth and charm. "Gentlemen," he said smoothly, "do carry on. I do love a good history lesson."

  The men froze. One went pale. The other tried to summon a smile. "Mr. Vandercourt, how pleasant to see you."

  "Likewise." Victor's grin didn't reach his eyes. "But you mustn't let anyone hear you discuss this thing at the fundraiser."

  One of them stammered, "We meant no disrespect—"

  "Of course you didn't," Victor said easily, swirling his drink. "Just a reminder, the Chairman doesn't forgive. And I'd hate to see two fine gentlemen accidentally wiped from the guest list."

  The man coughed, looking ready to melt into the carpet.

  Victor took a step closer, his tone softening to something far more dangerous. "If he doesn't bother, you can be sure Vander Holdings will take care of it. We're more efficient about such matters."

  That did it. They blanched, muttered apologies, and vanished into the nearest crowd.

  Victor exhaled softly, letting the irritation bleed out. He didn't know why he'd stepped in. It wasn't his place, wasn't his problem. But Belize Clarendon was a line even he wouldn't cross.

  He could hate Corin with every cultivated nerve, wish her empire in flames, but not through her mother's ashes.

  He turned just in time to see Corin cutting across the ballroom, her gown moving like silk and shadow.

  "Stop scaring the guests," she said, tone clipped but low enough not to draw attention.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, widening his grin. "I'm a delight."

  She crossed her arms. "What was that about? They were clearly talking about something."

  Of course she'd noticed. She noticed everything.

  Victor steered her curiosity somewhere safer. To this year's entertainment: Lucien Green, who was still beside Lady Harrowhal, the widow's hand looped around his arm as she laughed too loudly.

  "You're too cruel. Feeding Green to that eccentric old crone. I know she bleeds money, but even I wouldn't do this to Rothwell. How much do you need for this year's fundraiser?" he asked lightly. "I'm happy to whore myself out—take your pick of the rich widows and I'll have them cut you a check."

  Corin rolled her eyes. "Victor."

  "What?" He shrugged. "I'm contributing to charity. My body for the greater good."

  "No matter what filth you believe, it doesn't work that way." she said, voice low. "Answer the question."

  He tilted his head, amused. "I'll tell you," he said, leaning close enough for her perfume to cut through the whisky. "But you'll have to blow me first."

  Her expression froze, shock hardening into disgust. "You're a pig."

  She turned sharply and walked away, the diamonds at her neck catching the light like shrapnel.

  Victor watched her go. He finished his drink and set the glass down beside him; his reflection fractured in the crystal.

  ***

  The night ended the way all Clarendon nights did, expensive, immaculate, and successful.

  A record-breaking donation, the biggest since the Foundation's launch. The kind of number that made old men loosen their ties and pretend they gave a damn about philanthropy.

  The orchestra was packing up, bowstrings sighing their last notes. Staff were clearing crystal glasses, collecting the sins left behind on linen tables. The air smelled like perfume and exhaustion.

  Corin Clarendon was still working.

  She stood at the centre of it all, shaking hands with Taylor and the rest of the English Sporting Club, Lucien included.

  Victor stayed back, glass in hand, watching. Rothwell and Alistair did the same. They never left before the queen retired, some unwritten rule among predators.

  He watched as Corin extended her hand to Lucien. Every eye in the room followed. Everyone waiting to see if it lingered. If the golden boy from nowhere got even half a heartbeat more than the others.

  The disappointment, though, was equal to the event's success. She remained precise as ever. Just a handshake, firm and fleeting. Corin, giving the boy exactly what he deserved: nothing more, nothing less.

  Victor leaned against a pillar, finishing what was probably his fifth glass. He never counted. "The Clarendon way," he muttered under his breath. "Always leave them wanting."

  What he didn't get was why she always stayed behind after these things. She had this stupid habit of thanking the staff after every event.

  Ridiculous.

  They were paid for this. Handsomely. Gratitude was inefficient. It didn't buy loyalty—power did.

  He was about to tell her exactly that when the air cracked.

  A sound—sharp, metallic, wrong.

  Then the crash.

  One of the three-tiered trolleys—the ones piled high with the decorative plates and glass vases —listed to one side. One wheel gave out, and the whole thing went down in a slow-motion collapse of weight and panic.

  Corin didn't even look up until it was already tipping toward her.

  Victor's glass shattered at his feet. He didn't remember dropping it.

  "Shit—" He was moving before he thought about it. The crowd shouted, scrambled. Someone screamed her name.

  She turned too late.

  The sound when it hit was deafening—glass exploding, metal bending. The crash echoed through the hall.

  Victor's chest went tight. His mind was blank. He hated her. So much. But she was no use to him dead.

  "Get that thing off her!" Patrice's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. Security rushed forward, prying apart the wreckage piece by piece.

  Victor pushed through the blur of people, heart pounding, shoes crunching over glass.

  When they finally lifted the collapsed trolley, the air seemed to stop.

  There she was, sprawled on the floor, dress torn at the shoulder, blue silk streaked dark with blood and dust. Her hair had come loose. She was breathing, barely.

  And on top of her, was Lucien Green.

  Blood dripping down his forehead. His arm braced protectively around her, like he'd thrown himself into the fall. His breathing was rough, chest heaving.

  For a moment, the room just stared. No one knew what to say.

  Victor swallowed, his mouth dry.

  Corin's lips parted, eyes wide, confused—and for the first time in years, she didn't look composed. She looked human.

  Patrice was already shouting orders. "Get the medics! Now!"