As Mother turned toward the exit, leaving with her security team and attendants, her composure restored, the sound of slow, deliberate clapping echoed across the marble floor.
Caden’s clap is slow and theatrical, the sound unnaturally loud in the hush of the marble lobby. He leans back against the column as if he’d been paid to provide ambiance. "Bravo brother" he purrs, eyes glittering. "What a show."
He stepped into the light, his grin sharp, his eyes glittering with malice and sothing darker—sothing unhinged.
My jaw tightened. "Who invited you to the dinner?"
He spread his arms as if embracing the gilded room. "Father, of course. Who else? You know he loves to keep his wild cards close at hand."
I didn’t answer. The sight of him—the smugness, the shadow of resemblance I loathed—was enough to reignite the fury I’d just caged. I watched Caden the way a chess player watches an opponent set a trap — calm, displeased, cataloguing.
Without warning, his hand slid to his jacket. A tallic whisper, the flip of sothing small and chanical, and a flash of movent. A tiny dart, no bigger than a tack, burst from a pen-like tube he’d pald and skittered toward my chest.
Instinct moves before thought. My shoulders rotate, that precise economy of motion I used on the tennis court and in boardrooms, and the needle whistles past where my heart just was. It carves the air with a sound like a whispered insult.
Caden laughs, delighted. "You’re still fast in the defense, brother. How romantic."
A pair of security officers, prid and angry, surge forward — hands ready for cuffs, for force. I didn’t even glance at them. My right hand lifts in one small, absolute gesture: hold.
They freeze. Every muscle in the room recalibrates to the unspoken command.
Caden studied for a beat, the smirk settling into sothing colder. He pockets the pen, tucks the chanism out of sight, and takes a pace closer, careful, theatrical. "You should thank ," he says softly, slow as poison. "I give free advice. Not all knives co from the front. Sotis they’re slipped neatly between the ribs when you’re too busy protecting the queen piece to notice the pawns circling."
I narrowed my eyes. "Speak plainly."
He chuckled, low and mocking. "Plain speech was never my style. Let’s just say... sotis the sweetest things kill you slowly."
My expression didn’t change; only the set of my jaw tightens. I sll the aning behind the words anyway — the threat, the promise, the delight in other people’s ruin. I knew Caden well enough to know that everything is both a taunt and a breadcrumb.
Caden’s voice drops another notch, conspiratorial. "You were always careless with what you served, you know. One day, sothing you handed out casually will co back to choke you. Enjoy the applause while it lasts. The fall is much louder."
I frowned, irritation simring, but the words struck no chord I could place. "Enough riddles."
Caden gave a shallow bow, exaggerated and mocking. "As you wish, brother. You’ll understand soon enough. When the past cos calling, I hope you’ll rember tonight. I hope you’ll rember ."
And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving only the echo of his laughter in the hollowed silence.
The silence he left behind was thick and heavy, a stage waiting for its next actor. I did not turn to watch him go. My focus remained, a laser on the space he had just vacated, cataloging the threat, dismissing the theatrics. The security team, a wall of tense muscle and dark suits, held their position, awaiting my signal.
"Stand down," I said, my voice low. The command was not for them, but for the second head of security, a man nad Silas whose loyalty was as absolute as his efficiency. "See that he’s escorted to his car. And then have the lot swept for any other... devices he may have left behind."
Silas gave a curt nod and began issuing orders into his comms unit. The team dispersed with practiced precision, their movents a silent ballet of control reasserted.
Caden’s words scraped like glass against the inside of my skull. Sweet things kill you slowly. Pawns circling while you guard the queen. A riddle, or a warning? He never spoke without intent, even when he sounded insane.
But how? I had him leashed. Every step, every drink, every woman — reported to by n who never blink. He couldn’t have moved without knowing.
Was this another performance, or a warning buried in theater?
Gray and Caron should have been here. Instead, they were halfway to Sealand, chasing down an "issue" at the port. Convenient timing. Too convenient.
The timing gnawed at . Caron walking out just before Caden strolled in. The dart, a toy, a taunt—enough to show I wasn’t untouchable. And now the riddle, a knife twisted without ever cutting.
I hated it. The not knowing. The suspicion without proof.
The thought stoked an old, unwelco heat in my chest — not fear, but irritation. I do not play gas I cannot read.
****
ISABELLA’S POV
Aria burst into the house like she owned it, oversized sunglasses covering half her face and a giant tote bag swinging off her arm. The bag was bedazzled with glittery letters that read Ergency Girlfriend Kit.
"I brought snacks, tissues, and moral support," she announced like a superhero declaring her powers. "Also, three different playlists for car mood control." she declared, marching straight into my room.
"You’re insane."
"Correction," Aria said, dropping the bag with a theatrical thud. "I’m prepared. Now, where’s the patient?"
She began rummaging through the tote like a magician pulling rabbits, tossing out a granola bar, a bottle of water, and what looked suspiciously like a silk scarf.
"We need to talk wardrobe," Aria continued, pulling open my closet like a stylist on retainer. "Do we dress like responsible adults or like we’re auditioning for a dical drama? Because I am very good at crying in slow motion."
"I was thinking jeans and a sweater," I said, eyeing the options she is pulling out.
"Blasphemy," Aria gasped. "You’re carrying a billionaire’s baby. We need drama. We need elegance. We need options."
A groan slipped out of . I yanked a pillow over my face. "Why am I even friends with you?"
"Because you love ."
My voice was muffled against the pillow. "Do I look fat?"
"Of course not," Aria replied sweetly. "You look fat."
I threw the pillow at her head so hard she yelped.
By the ti we were actually dressed and ready, she was still fussing over my top like we were headed to a gala instead of a doctor’s office. I slapped her hands away. "Stop. I’m not a doll."
"Fine," she huffed, grinning anyway.
Outside, her sleek black sedan waited at the curb, the driver holding the door open. She slid in first and tugged with her into the back.
I raised a brow as the car pulled away. "You couldn’t drive yourself? Are you injured?"
"Nope. Because." She waved a hand like the answer was obvious. "I know you won’t sit in front because of the baby. And I wasn’t about to leave you lonely in the back like so tragic Victorian widow. Hence: driver."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "You’re ridiculous."
She smirked. "You’re welco."
By the ti the car pulled into motion, the tote bag was open between us, spilling with protein bars, sour candy, and a suspiciously large pack of wet wipes. Aria had her sunglasses propped on her head now, grinning like she had all the tea in the world.
"So," she drawled, "how was dinner with the Waltons? And—oh my God—how did your dad and Leo react when they found out Mr. Dreamy is actually that Walton?"
I groaned, leaning my head back against the leather seat. "You’re not going to believe this."
Aria leaned in like a gossip reporter shoving a mic under my chin. "Try ."
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