I used to think survival was the most important. Now, I know that the way you choose to survive matters even more. —CHARLOTTE DEERING, JOURNAL ENTRY
CHAPTER 25
I twist in my sheets, haunted again by the attack that feeds on me night after night. My eyelids flutter as I fight to break free of the nightmare, but I’m dragged back into the brutality of Charles Blackwell’s hands clamped around my throat, choking the breath from my body. A groan slips out as I brace for the sharp crack of bone, for the moment when I slam my forehead into his
nose like a hammer.
Instead, I hear blaring brass.
Trumpets. Trombones. Tubas. The sound of a full marching band bursts through the morning silence like a battle cry. I roll over in bed, my sweaty hair sticking to my back, my fists curling before I even realize I’m awake.
What the hell?
The music swells until it seems to echo across the whole campus. The band snakes past the Green Dormitory in an orderly formation, the brass instruments glimmering in the cold morning sun. They cut through the Guillotine Yard and turn toward the Blue Dormitory, their boots stomping in perfect time with the booming bass drums.
I slide out of bed, still half-dazed, and hurry to my balcony, where the wintry air cuts through my silk nightdress. The entire campus is waking up with me. Windows fling open, and heads pop out as students blink groggily, watching the band march past as if on a mission.
Then, at last, I realize where they’re going.
I activate my Bond and use the binocular feature to zoom across the Guillotine Yard. My vision sharpens as it pulls me past the towering Blue Dormitory entrance, locking onto a grand, carved-stone balcony on the fourth
floor.
And there they are.
The twins.
Edmund and Rosamund sit together at a luxurious breakfast table, basking in the golden spill of early sunlight. A porcelain teapot steams beside a tiered tray of tea scones, with bowls of clotted cream, and rich platters of smoked trout, grilled veal sausages, and poached eggs. Across from them, Jack and Dickie lounge back, still in their pajamas, half-asleep as they pile their plates with food.
Of course. It’s a birthday tribute, an entire marching band summoned for Edmund and Rosamund by the Office of Student Affairs. Or maybe by their mother.
The song reaches its climax beneath the balcony. The conductor thrashes wildly, wringing every last ounce of energy from the musicians. Even the students—most still slouched at their windows in a drowsy haze—look mesmerized. For a moment, the entire student body is absorbed in the performance, as if it’s the most important event in the university’s history.
When the final note rings out and fades into the crisp morning air, the band stands at attention, their eyes lifted in anticipation.
Edmund gets up from the table alone, holding a champagne flute.
Meanwhile, Rosamund leans toward Jack and whispers something that makes him squint in discomfort. Her sapphire dress flows with each movement, the fabric caressing her body as if with the adoration she clearly wishes Jack would give her.
Edmund rests one hand on the balcony railing. At this point, I know he has two smiles. One is a straight-edged mask of politeness he wears out of habit. The other transforms his face, softening his proud features, creating lines around his eyes and mouth, and filling his face with a warmth that feels
foreign for a Blue.
Today, his smile is real.
He dips his chin, raises his champagne flute, and calls something down to the marching band. I can’t hear the words from here, but whatever he says sets off a roar of laughter, cheers, and applause.
The conductor takes a sweeping bow, then signals the band to break formation. Instruments are swung over shoulders, uniforms blend into the crowded streets, and in a matter of moments, the musicians disperse back into the dormitories.
Rosamund pulls up beside Edmund at the railing and slips an arm around his waist. He smiles and kisses the top of her head, then they both look down.
I follow their gaze to the front steps of the Blue Dormitory, where a line of Pinkies stretches across the walkway. Each robot carries a pair of gifts, beautifully wrapped and decorated with flowers, jewels, and ribbons.
The line is long… very long. I don’t need to see the name tags to know all the gifts are from students. Some are probably eager to win favor with the Prews, while others are likely sending gifts out of fear or obligation.
Whatever the reason, the outcome is the same: Edmund and Rosamund are being showered with a tidal wave of wealth and tribute, a display of power so staggering I feel intimidated.
There are so many gifts that the Pinkies have to stack the packages on bellhop carts in the lobby. Edmund and Rosamund probably won’t open them personally. Most will be cataloged and stored away, forgotten the moment they arrive.
Suddenly, I wonder if mine will be one of those, if my gift will be swallowed by the pile and dismissed before it’s even touched.
No.
Edmund will like the Hellion’s badge. He has to.
Because I gave up too much for him not to.
Time is ticking, so I swap my morning run for a drill with my fencing stick, then shower and dress in my formal daywear. Charlotte and I are supposed to meet Edmund for an early lunch, after which we’re free to disappear. The best-case scenario is that we slip in, grab a quick bite, hand over our gifts, and ghost out before the chaos starts or, worse, before Rosamund shows up.
The line of Pinkies outside the Blue Dormitory has doubled. They stand in neat formation, handing their impeccably wrapped gifts to the Pinkies in the lobby, who whisk them away to storage, moving carefully so as not to disturb the high-citizens exiting the elevators or waiting for their hovercars at the valet.
When I leave my suite around 10:00 a.m., the whole Green Dormitory is flipped on its head. Everywhere I go, students are chatting about the party and what it’ll be like to see Scarlet Du Pont perform live. By the time I reach
the parking garage, the silence feels like mercy. Charlotte is already there, lingering by my hovercar with one foot on the running board. Her kiss curls peek out from beneath a cloche hat, still short but growing longer each day.
The lapel of her jade fur coat covers half her face, and her oversized sunglasses hide the rest. She looks like a turtle trying to disappear into its shell.
Charlotte remains silent for the first half of the drive, absentmindedly flipping through the radio stations and skipping her favorite jazz station. Her knee bounces, and her eyes dart between the flashing holographic billboards lining the streets, each plastered with Edmund’s and Rosamund’s faces, surrounded by swirling gilded letters that read, Happy Birthday. Every time she notices one, she shifts in her seat.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Charlotte opens her mouth, then closes it.
“Come on, Char,” I prod gently. “You can tell me.”
“I know I can. It’s just…” She exhales deeply and drops her head into her hands. “I’m screwed, Lore. Screwed. I didn’t get Edmund a gift.”
I decelerate the hovercar too abruptly, and Charlotte jerks forward in her seat. “What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought Jack lent you money?”
“He did, but…” She pauses to clip on her seatbelt. “Money’s tight right now, tighter than a gnat’s ass stretched over a barrel. I can barely cover my basic expenses, let alone buy some extravagant gift.”
“Doesn’t your dad give you an allowance?”
“Only what he’s legally required to. Which isn’t much. Other than that, he’s cut me off.”
I knew things were rocky between Charlotte and her dad—she mentioned their fallout on Harrison’s jet—but I didn’t realize the situation was this bad.
Her dad always struck me as the social-climbing type, especially among the high-citizens. He’s a top-dog lawyer who only represents Blues, hoping to gain access to a Blue’s entourage, Charlotte once told me. Yet, even with all that hunger for prestige, abandoning Charlotte and leaving her to fend for herself at a place as expensive as Grandmaster seems almost too cruel to believe. I’m surprised she’s not already sleeping on a park bench.
“Don’t worry about anything, Char,” I say. “Let me help.”
She tugs off her sunglasses. “No, Lore. I couldn’t—”
“My monthly allowance is more than I spend.”
Charlotte hesitates, chewing the edge of her sunglasses as if they might
bite back. Then, slowly, she reaches across the console and squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”
For a moment, her expression looks lighter, as if a piece of the weight she always carries has slipped from her shoulders. I smile, grateful for the chance to finally help her after what she did for me on the Regal Express.
Her hand stays on mine as I drive, weaving through congested aerial lanes toward the Moonshine Mile. Soon, she flips through the radio again, her gaze drifting over the hovercar as if staring hard enough could make a gift suddenly materialize.
“Do you really need to give Edmund something?” I ask. “He already
knows you don’t like him, so—”
“I never said I didn’t like him.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No. I didn’t,” Charlotte insists, rummaging through the glove compartment.
My eyebrows pinch together. “Either I’ve got a hole in my brain, or you’ve got one in yours. On Harry’s jet, I could’ve sworn you said all Blues are spiders who fatten you up to bleed you dry.”
Charlotte’s cheeks tighten. “Oh, right. Well, I was pissed. And I still am.”
“Why? What did Edmund do?”
She rubs the back of her neck, avoiding my gaze. Her throat works around the words, and for a moment, I think she won’t say them. Then, barely audible, she whispers, “The same thing Jack did. He didn’t forgive me.”
Charlotte turns away and continues fiddling with the radio, as if the static might drown her out. But I can already see the cracks, the way her shoulders hitch, the way she can barely sit still long enough to finish a full sentence.
She wants forgiveness. Craves it. But she hasn’t even given it to herself.
“Forgive you for what, Char?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head.
“You can say it.”
“No. I can’t,” she rasps.
“I won’t judge you.”
“You should.”
Charlotte stares straight ahead, unblinking, until a tear swells in the corner of her eye. It trembles, then spills, cutting a path down her cheek.
“I stepped out, Lore,” she says, her voice splintering. “On the only man I ever wanted. The only man I’ve ever loved. I… cheated.”
Oh.
I try to keep my expression neutral, pretending her words weren’t the last thing I expected to hear. People cheat in relationships. I know that. Mom had a friend who two-timed and still got her husband to take her back. Edmund walks around with enough nail marks from his mistresses to make a sport of it.
But Charlotte? She loved Jack. She still does.
Something else doesn’t add up, either. Why is Edmund so angry? I understand him being pissed on Jack’s behalf, but not enough to drag Charlotte into a shot duel or bar her from his entourage until he was forced to let her in by our formal agreement.
This feels bigger than the average knife-in-the-back. It makes me wonder if the man Charlotte cheated with wasn’t a stranger in the dark but someone Edmund and Jack both hated. Someone who made it unforgivable.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
Charlotte wipes her cheeks with a silk handkerchief, but a fresh wave of tears quickly dampens them again. “I was angry,” she sobs. “Angry about Rosamund. And about Jack never standing up for me when it mattered. I waited, Lore. A year of waiting, watching, hurting. When nothing changed, I knew that even if I loved Jack, I couldn’t keep living like that.”
Her chest rises and falls, each word dragged out as if it hurts to speak.
“We were at the Royce Club for Jack’s birthday. It was supposed to be perfect—Edmund, Dickie, and I had planned it for weeks—but when Rosamund showed up uninvited and pulled Jack outside to give him that fancy hovercar, it pushed me over the edge. I took Bliss, thinking it would help me cope. But it was a bad batch. Instead of making me float, the drug lit everything up. My anger. My hurt. All of it. I felt like I was burning alive inside my skin.”
Charlotte shakes her head and brushes away the tears with the back of her hand. Her face hardens, grief still visible beneath her jaded expression. “I wanted a way out. And I took it. But the cost was everything else.”
I stare at the road ahead, suddenly wishing Charlotte hadn’t told me. Why the hell did I have to be so damn nosy? It’s not that I think any differently of her—I don’t. But when it comes to men, I’ve got no experience. I have no idea how to help her.
“Judge me if you want,” she says with a sniffle. “I’d deserve it. But just know I already hate myself more than Jack and Edmund ever could.”
I look her in the eye, searching for the right words. “Jack… well, he doesn’t seem that angry with you anymore.”
“Yeah, but that makes it worse.” Charlotte’s voice drops to a salt-rock rasp. “He’s moving on. He’s healing. And I’m still bleeding. I thought I could move on, too, but seeing him every day makes it impossible. He’s my anchor in a sinking world, Lore. And without him, I’m going under with it.”
The pain on her face gut-wrenches me. She looks like she’s drifted out into deep water, too exhausted to scream, her arms no longer flailing. And if
no one dives in and grabs hold— I reach over and take her hand.
“No,” I say. “You’re not. I won’t let you.”
Charlotte’s hand trembles in mine, and I tighten my grip to steady it.
“I’m sorry, Lore,” she whispers.
“Why? None of this is mine to forgive. And what was mine to forgive…
well, I forgave that a long time ago.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course, I do.”
The words seem to sever the last thread of her composure. With a broken sob, Charlotte leans across the console and clings to me. I switch the hovercar to autonomous mode just in time, narrowly avoiding a drift into the neighboring vehicle. Then I hold her back, letting the world blur past in streaks of light and noise.
When Charlotte finally pulls away, she exhales a long, ragged breath that brings color back to her lips. She wipes her eyes, blots her cheeks, and then refreshes her makeup, just as she must’ve done every day before walking into rooms with Jack’s and Edmund’s accusing stares.
I understand now why she changed her face.
It wasn’t for beauty.
It was because the old one knew what she did.
