## Vale
Secrets tasted like poison. I'd been swallowing them whole since Celeste's death, and I was choking.
First, being dragged into the murder investigation like I had anything to do with it. Now, catching my best friend fucking our English teacher on his desk like a bad porno audition.
By morning, my nerves were shot.
Tessa sat across from me in the cafeteria, hood up, chewing gum like she hadn't been grinding on Mr. Harland twelve hours ago. Her eyeliner was smudged, lips a little too swollen.
I stared at her. She smirked. "What? You're looking at me like I kicked your puppy."
"You're screwing Harland."
She froze mid-chew. Blinked. Then shrugged. "Yeah. So?"
"So?" My voice pitched higher. "He's our fucking *teacher*, Tess!"
"Relax, Vale. It's not like I'm the first girl in this hellhole to climb up the staff ladder—"
"Jesus Christ." I slammed my tray down, heads turning. "You think this is a joke? You could get expelled. He could go to prison. And you—"
"—am being stupid." Her voice cracked just a little. She dropped her gum into a napkin and looked away. "Okay, maybe it's not as harmless as I wanted to believe."
That tiny crack in her armor softened me.
"Tessa, you can't keep doing this," I said, lowering my voice. "Please. For me."
For once, she didn't shoot back with a smartass reply. She just sighed, tugged at her hoodie sleeve, and muttered, "Fine. I'll stop. Promise."
"Promise promise?"
Her lips twitched. "Promise promise."
Relief loosened something in my chest.
She nudged my arm with a crooked smile. "Still friends?"
I exhaled, the weight of last night easing. "Still friends."
For real this time.
---
### Detective Monroe
Third round of questioning. Same damn chair, same damn sweat dripping down the back of my neck.
"Vale," Monroe said, gray eyes boring into me, "you knew Celeste Marrow. You had reason to hate her. And you're hiding something. I can smell it."
My palms went slick. "I didn't kill her."
"Then who did?"
If only I fucking knew.
---
### Lucian
I didn't set foot in Blackthorn that day.
Instead, I sat at a table draped in black velvet, surrounded by men in suits who'd slit throats before breakfast. My father at one end. Celeste's father at the other. Whiskey glasses sweating between them.
We were supposed to be celebrating a future union. Draven blood and Marrow blood, tied by a signature and sealed with vows.
An engagement. Arranged before either of us had a choice.
Celeste had wanted it. God, she'd wanted me. She'd whispered it every time she got too close at one of those mafia banquets, her perfume sharp, her nails dragging down my arm.
But me? I didn't love her. I didn't even like her.
And now she was in the ground, her red dress buried with her, her blood still staining the memory of that night.
"Your son had nothing to do with her death," my father was saying, his voice iron.
Celeste's father's face was a mask, but his eyes—sharp, dangerous—shifted to me. "If I find out otherwise, Draven, I'll cut your empire off at the knees."
I didn't flinch. Just raised my glass. "Then you'll be looking for a ghost. Because I didn't touch her."
A lie I'd told enough times to make it sound true.
But inside, something burned. Not grief. Not love.
Anger.
Whoever killed Celeste had just put a bullet between my family's eyes. And I wasn't going to let that slide.
---
### Lyra
That night, I lay awake replaying Celeste's last moments. The crown clattering to the floor. Her blood soaking silk. Her lips parting in a gasp that was swallowed by music and shadows.
Someone had been there.
And as much as I wanted answers, the only things I had were ghosts.
My eyes burned. My heart hammered.
And I realized I might be next.