The air in the infirmary carried the harsh bite of antiseptic, sharp behind Darris’s steady gaze. Tavira froze, her ribs binding against her lungs. Her mind raced, cataloging every micro-expression she might have let slip, every deviation from her sister’s carefully constructed façade. She had been so cautious, so utterly consumed by the performance. Yet, he knew.
“What… what are you talking about?” The words felt brittle, like glass shards on her tongue. Her hand instinctively went to her throat, a familiar gesture Lyra would never make.
Darris didn’t flinch. His slate-gray eyes held hers without blinking. He had cleaned the last trace of blood from his knuckles, but the memory of his brutal efficiency in the alley clung to him, an unsettled threat. “The woman who drew a weeping willow with the precision of a master botanist,” he stated, his voice steady through the quiet room. “The woman who tended to a dying orchid as if it were her own child. The woman who doesn’t flinch at the sight of my blood, yet shrinks from a simple touch. You are not your sister.”
Pellam, listening from the examination bed, shifted against the paper liner, his shoulders stiffening. He started to speak, but Tavira’s hand flew out, pressing gently against his arm. The gesture was meant to reassure, but also to command quiet. This was her battle now.
“And if I’m not?” Tavira challenged, her voice gaining a surprising strength. Fear remained, taut and bitter in her throat, yet met with rigid defiance. She had faced down an heiress with poison on her skin and a street gang circling her brother. She could face Darris Morvel.
He stepped closer, invading her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “Then you are an imposter,” Darris said, flat and quiet, “living under my roof, raising my son, and attempting to abscond with my assets.” His eyes narrowed further. “She wouldn’t have fought off a socialite like that. She wouldn’t have cared. She certainly wouldn’t have shielded my child from a falling statue. And she never looked at Pellam with fierce protection.”
Tavira’s resolve wavered. He had seen too much. He had pieced together fragments she thought only she knew. The wall she had built, brick by agonizing brick, was crumbling.
“I don’t care who you are,” Darris continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet each word distinct. “What I care about is Ennis. And Pellam. I will not have them caught in reckless schemes.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over her, a possessive fire igniting in his depths. “But you have proven one thing: you are capable. Capable of protection, capable of adaptation. And that, I can use.”
He stepped back abruptly, the shift in his demeanor almost dizzying. “There’s a charity gala tonight. The Solstice Ascent. It’s important. Every significant family in Ostravia will be there.” He gestured vaguely to the door. “Be ready by eight. And you will play the part of my devoted partner. The *mother* of my child. Flawlessly.”
The demand hung in the air, a silken noose. Tavira could only stare, her mind reeling from the abrupt pivot. He knew, yet he still wanted her to maintain the illusion, but now, for his own purposes. The irony was a bitter taste.
Hours later, the rain, a constant companion in Ostravia, slicked the polished facade of the Ascendant Tower, a spire of glass and chrome that pierced the perpetually grey sky. Its upper floors glowed, a beacon of opulence visible for miles. Inside, the Solstice Ascent gala was a glittering crush of wealth and power. The air hummed with hushed conversations and the clinking of crystal, a stark contrast to the driving rain outside.
Tavira, encased in a gown of midnight blue left behind in the penthouse wardrobe, felt like a stranger in her own skin. The fabric, cut to expose a daring amount of collarbone, was heavy, yet unforgiving. She moved beside Darris, his presence a dark, unyielding force. He had dressed in a perfectly tailored suit the color of anthracite, his gaze sweeping the room with a proprietorial air that made her feel more like a prized acquisition than a partner.
Almost immediately, the swarm began. Men, older, younger, their smiles predatory, their eyes assessing, converged on them. They were her twin's old acquaintances, drawn by familiarity. “Darling, looking radiant tonight,” a man with a booming laugh and a too-tight suit slurred, his hand hovering over Tavira’s bare arm. “Missed you at the Merrow Club.”
Tavira forced a polite, distant smile. “Jerome,” she acknowledged, keeping her distance, her voice a shade too soft, lacking her sister's usual biting wit. She felt exposed, vulnerable under their scrutiny, each man a potential mirror reflecting Lyra’s past back at her. The illusion stood fragile against their expectations.
Darris, a silent sentinel by her side, watched the exchange, teeth setting firm. He didn’t say a word, but his hand moved, a slow, deliberate motion that settled on the small of Tavira’s back, a possessive anchor. When another man, a broker named Corvus, leaned in, his gaze lingering on Tavira’s neck, Darris’s grip tightened imperceptibly. He subtly shifted his body, physically interposing himself between Tavira and the approaching circle, a silent, formidable barrier.
“Gentlemen,” Darris’s voice, though low, cut through the ambient chatter like a razor. “I believe my companion and I were just discussing a private matter.” The implication was clear: *She is mine. Move along.* His eyes, cold and unwavering, met Corvus’s, a challenge that brooked no argument. The men, sensing the shift in Darris’s mood, quickly dispersed, their pretense of joviality evaporating.
Tavira found herself pressed closer to Darris, the warmth of his body radiating through her gown. The sudden, intense surge of his territoriality was both alarming and, to her utter confusion, strangely comforting. He had just protected her, without a word, from the very world he had forced her to inhabit. The confusion was quickly overshadowed by another kind of dread. Her sister's world was not just filled with superficial admirers.
As Darris led her towards a less crowded corner near the bar, a figure detached itself from the shadows. He was a weasel of a man, thin and balding, dressed in an expensive suit that looked ill-fitting on his bony frame. His name was Roric Varmoss, and a cold dread coiled in Tavira’s stomach. She recognized him from old phone logs left in the apartment, a name associated with vague threats and debts.
Roric’s eyes, devoid of warmth, fixed on Tavira. “Well, well, if it isn’t the ice queen herself,” he sneered, his voice a low rasp that was meant only for her. He slid a thick, cream-colored envelope across the polished bar towards her. “Heard you were back. Thought you’d want a little memento of your twin’s last days. Proof, you might say, of how she really went out. Not so glamorous, was it?” His smirk widened, revealing a gold tooth. “An overdose. Didn’t see *that* coming, did you?”
Tavira stopped breathing. The envelope, thick with its insidious contents, sat between them, a tangible representation of her worst fears. Her vision blurred at the edges, the noise of the gala receding into a distant hum. Lyra’s death had been ruled accidental, a fall. An overdose… that would shatter everything, expose her fraud in the most brutal way, and likely implicate her in a cover-up. Panic pressed sharp against her ribs, suffocating and sudden.
Before she could even process the information, before she could react, Darris moved. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at Roric. His hand, swift and decisive, came down on the blackmailer’s half-full champagne glass, which Roric had just lifted to his lips. The crystal shattered with a sharp, explosive crack that silenced the immediate vicinity. Shards scattered across the bar, glittering under the opulent lights. Champagne splattered, mixing with a thin line of blood that appeared on Roric’s knuckles. Roric stared, his face draining of color, then flinched back, a whimper escaping his lips.
Darris’s gaze swept across the suddenly silent ballroom, his eyes like shards of glacier ice. He gripped Tavira’s arm, pulling her slightly behind him, shielding her from the sudden, rapt attention of the entire room. His voice, when he spoke, was not a shout, but a dangerously calm pronouncement that carried through the stunned silence.
“If anyone speaks to my future wife like that again, I will dismantle your lives piece by piece.”