I followed the butler down a hallway that smelled like regret and lemon polish. Left at the Renaissance-era torture device disguised as a coat rack, right past the oil painting of a man who definitely murdered someone for underseasoned soup. My bare feet sank into a Persian rug worth more than Marcella's entire villa. If I trip and spill champagne on this, will they bury me in the rose garden?
The dining hall hit me like a slap of chilled champagne.
Holy molly!!!
It wasn't a room—it was a cathedral to excess. Thirty feet high, with vaulted ceilings where crystal chandeliers dripped light like liquid diamonds. A table so long it could've doubled as a runway stretched before me, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the storm outside. Ten place settings gleamed with enough silver to arm a small nation. At the far end, a fireplace roared like a caged beast, casting dancing shadows over oil portraits of Drevanes who looked like they'd strangled rivals for using the wrong fork.
Welcome to the Hunger Games, if the tributes were forced to eat truffle foam with a gold spoon.
The butler bowed. "Mademoiselle Veyron."
All eyes snapped to me.
Showtime, Selene. I pasted on Selene's vacant smile—the one she used when ignoring servants—and glided forward. Inside, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped sparrow. Don't trip. Don't blink. Don't breathe too loudly.
Cassian sat at the head of the table, all sharp angles and storm clouds. He didn't look up from his tablet, but I felt his gaze like a physical touch. He's waiting for me to crack.
Then the family began.
The Patriarch (Grandpa Drevane): A prune-faced relic in a velvet smoking jacket, glaring at me like I'd insulted his favorite war crime. Probably thinks I'm a Bolshevik because I didn't curtsy deeply enough. His knotted hands rested on a cane topped with a silver wolf's head. Bet he whacks servants with that. Or grandsons who dare to love.
The Matriarch (Grandma Drevane): A tiny bird of a woman drowning in pearls and spite. She held a monocle to one eye, squinting at my hair like I'd brought lice to dinner. Blonde, but is it Drevane blonde? her expression screamed. Needs more ice. Less humanity. She tapped her cane—identical to Grandpa's, but with a diamond-studded poodle head—and whispered to Cassian, "Too much root. Fix it."
The Father (Victor Drevane): A human glacier in a tuxedo, swirling cognac like it contained state secrets. Where's Selene's laugh? his silence accused. Where's the spark? He didn't touch his food. Just watched me, calculating how much I'd depreciate his son's stock price.
The Mother (Eleanor Drevane): All sharp cheekbones and sharper perfume. She smiled like a shark spotting blood, studying my borrowed gown. That silk's last season, darling, her arched eyebrow said. And your posture? Tragic. Like a librarian. Which, ouch, hit too close to home.
The Elder Brother (Julian): Cassian's mirror image but softened by too much caviar and too little conscience. He winked at me while spearing a quail egg. Don't mind Cass, his smirk promised. He'll warm up once you learn to shut up. His wife, a porcelain doll with dead eyes, dabbed her lips with a napkin embroidered with her initials. Not his. Smart girl.
The Younger Sister (Lysandra): A teenage grenade in a ballgown. Eighteen, with Cassian's storm-gray eyes but zero of his self-control. She kicked off her designer heels under the table and texted furiously, muttering, "Ugh, another blonde Stepford wife? How predictable." Then she caught my eye and smirked. You're not her, are you? her raised eyebrow whispered. Tell Cass I said his new toy's got spine.
My place setting was a museum exhibit:
• Fork 1: For peeling the skin off caviar (apparently a thing)
• Fork 2: For "deconstructing" the amuse-bouche (a single pea in gold leaf)
• Fork 3: For the actual appetizer (foie gras shaped like a swan)
• Knife: So sharp it could part the Red Sea
• Napkin: Monogrammed with S.V. in thread that probably cost more than my mother's library
• Water glass: Filled with liquid so clear it looked radioactive
Selene would've asked for a Coke, I thought, tracing the rim of the glass. I'd kill for tap water right now.
Dinner began with the silence of a tomb. Victor Drevane tapped his spoon against a crystal bowl—a signal, not a request—and servants materialized like ghosts, placing plates before us.
My "appetizer" was a single scallop floating in a sea of saffron foam, garnished with edible gold dust. Probably mined by underpaid elves.
Julian broke the silence. "So, Selene." He drawled my sister's name like it was a dirty word. "Cass says you're… quiet." He leaned forward, elbows on the table—a mortal sin in Drevane etiquette, judging by Eleanor's twitch. "What's your talent? Besides looking like a shampoo commercial?"
Oh, you want talent? I thought, picking up the caviar-peeling fork with deliberate slowness. How about noticing Grandma's monocle is fake? Or that Lysandra's texting Kieran Ashford under the table? Or that Cassian hasn't touched his food because he's too busy watching me dissect this scallop like it holds the meaning of life?
I took a bite. The scallop tasted like regret and overpriced ocean.
"I collect first editions," I said in Selene's airy tone, though my voice felt like glass shards in my throat. "Machiavelli. Dante. The Art of War."
Julian choked on his wine.
Cassian's head snapped up.
Too much, I realized. Selene thinks Shakespeare wrote Twilight.
Before Julian could recover, Lysandra kicked my ankle under the table. Nice save, her smirk said. Now tell them the truth: you're here to burn this house down.
Eleanor cleared her throat. "How… quaint. Though I've always found violence in literature so vulgar." She speared a swan wing with surgical precision. "We prefer grace in this family."
Grandma Drevane raised her monocle again. "Grace is earned, child. Not bleached." Her gaze dropped pointedly to my roots. "Tell me, Selene—does the sun bother your eyes? Or just the truth?"
Oh, we're doing this. I met her stare, channeling my mother's quiet fury. "The sun's fine, Grandma. It's the shadows that hide the rot."
The table froze.
Victor's spoon clattered against his bowl. Eleanor's smile turned to ice. Even Julian stopped smirking.
Cassian? He didn't blink. But his knuckles whitened around his untouched fork.
Then—
SNAP.
The fork broke clean in half in his hand.
Silence. Thick as the saffron foam.
All eyes darted to Cassian. He didn't look at them. He looked at me.
"Julian," he said, his voice low and lethal, "you will never speak of my wife that way again."
Julian paled. "I didn't—"
"You implied she was less." Cassian's gaze never left mine. "She is more than any of you deserve."
Wife. The word hung in the air like smoke. He called me his wife. Not "the blonde." Not "the proxy."
Grandma Drevane slammed her poodle-cane down. "Enough! Serve the main course before the bœuf turns to dust."
As servants rushed in with plates of seared wagyu, Cassian finally spoke to me—just three words, so quiet only I could hear:
"You're playing with fire."
I didn't flinch. Just smoothed Selene's ivory gown over my knees and met his storm-gray eyes.
Good, I thought, picking up the swan-deconstructing fork. I've been cold too long.