Isla's POV
The ride was long, but that was the point.
No one dared throw this kind of party on school grounds—not even the legacy brats of St. Arthelios. So when Sophia's invite said off-campus only, I knew two things: it was going to be wild… and it was going to be a trap.
Perfect.
The place was buried somewhere outside the city—an abandoned underground club repurposed just for tonight. Neon lights buzzed overhead as we stepped in. The walls were soaked in old graffiti, the air sharp with perfume, smoke, and secrets. The bass? It didn't just shake the floor—it rattled bones.
I walked in like I belonged there.
Black leather skirt hugging my hips, dark heels that clicked like promises, and a sleeveless top that didn't ask for attention—it demanded it. My hair was loose, wavy, falling like silk down my back. A slash of dark liner framed my eyes, sharp enough to kill.
Beside me, Alice whistled low.
"If looks could kill," she murmured.
I smirked. "Good. Let them die twice."
We pushed through the crowd—legacy kids grinding, drinking, living like kings and queens of nothing but decay. The lights flashed red, then deep violet, as if warning us we'd entered a world we weren't meant to survive.
But I wasn't here to survive.
I was here to win.
And Sophia? She was already watching me.
She waited near the platform-turned-stage, hips cocked, wearing a smug red dress that clung to her like lies. Her lipstick matched the blood I swore I'd never spill in public. But tonight? I could make an exception.
She raised her glass. "Look who decided to show."
I tilted my head, smiling slow. "Would've been rude to miss your final performance."
A beat passed. And then, the trap snapped shut.
Sophia clapped twice—and suddenly the music cut. Everyone turned. A spotlight snapped on above me like I'd been called to stage.
"Tradition time!" she announced. "Every new Queen gets welcomed properly!"
Cheers. Laughs. Then, the chant began—loud, rowdy, drunk.
"Queen of Daggers! Queen of Daggers!"
I froze. Five glasses were being carried toward me on a silver tray. The liquid inside glowed like poison dressed in pink—Winkies, a favorite among mafia heirs who wanted their alcohol spiked with something a little more… risky.
My heart thudded once.
Alice leaned closer. "Don't. I don't like this."
Neither did I.
But there were eyes on me now. Dozens. Hungry ones. Whispers. Phones recording. They weren't cheering for my title—they were waiting for my fall.
I couldn't blink. Couldn't flinch.
So I smiled.
Glass one—down. Easy.
Two—burned on the way.
Three—I felt the buzz hit hard, a slow coil behind my ribs.
Four—the room was starting to sway.
By the time I tipped the fifth back, my fingers were trembling and my head felt like it was made of smoke.
I didn't fall. Not yet. But I was slipping.
Sophia watched from the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, lips curved in a trumpet-shaped grin.
She'd done it.
She'd drugged me in front of everyone, dressed it up as tradition, and called it a celebration.
And they cheered for it.
The cheers dimmed to echoes. The lights bled into each other. My vision blurred—
—and that's when I saw him.
Arthur.
Cutting through the crowd like a knife, eyes dark and burning. His jaw tight, mouth set in a look I'd never seen on him before—furious, protective, and something else. Something deeper.
I blinked, trying to steady myself—
He reached me.
His hand grabbed my wrist.
The room went dead silent.
"What the hell did you drink?" he asked, voice low but lethal.
I couldn't answer. I just stared.
And then, without asking, without waiting for anyone, he pulled me out—out of the lights, out of the room, out of the lie Sophia tried to turn into legend.
Alice stood frozen behind us, lips parted, unsure if she should move.
The crowd stared.
And above them all, on a dark-railed upper floor, Ares leaned forward, watching it unfold like a movie he'd already seen. His grin mirrored Sophia's—trumpet-shaped, wild.
But his eyes?
His eyes were lit with fire.