Delorah stirred to the soft buzz of her phone on the nightstand.
Light was already slicing through her curtains—too bright, too sharp. She blinked, squinting at the screen.
[1 New Text – Kit 🐍]
8:42 a.m.
still on for tonight?
Her stomach flipped.
He hadn't pushed yesterday when she went quiet.
Hadn't mentioned the intercom.
Hadn't said a word about that godawful name.
Adrian Scott Honey.
She hadn't asked.
And he hadn't offered.
Now here he was—casual, steady, pretending everything was fine. Like she hadn't seen the jagged cracks in him. Like she hadn't heard the name that split him wide open.
Delorah's thumb hovered over the message.
She wanted to say yes.
God, she wanted to say yes.
But her heart still hadn't slowed from the night before.
She left the message on read.
Set the phone face-down beside her like it might start burning.
She sat up slowly, the weight of unspoken things pressing into her ribs. Her breath felt shallow. Like grief without a name.
That was the worst part, maybe—that he hadn't trusted her with it.
Not yet.
The knock came sharp, jarring.
"Delorah, sweetheart, you up?" her mother called.
Delorah rubbed at her eyes. "Yeah," she croaked, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
"I need you dressed by six. Your father and I are expecting someone for dinner."
She frowned. "Expecting who?"
Her mother's voice turned glossy, lacquered with that too-sweet tone she reserved for corporate dinners and veiled threats.
"A family friend. You'll see. Wear the pink dress. You look lovely in it."
The line cut.
Delorah stared at the phone again, heart still pacing.
Kit wanted her tonight.
But her parents had already made other plans.
Just like that, the choice was gone.
No one asked if she had plans.
No one cared if she wanted to be somewhere else—with someone else.
Delorah stood slowly, crossing to her vanity.
Her reflection stared back: pale skin, tangled hair, shadows bruising her eyes.
She looked like a ghost still deciding who she wanted to haunt.
Tonight, she was expected to play both parts:
Good daughter.
Bad girl.
Dinner.
Party.
The only question was—
Who would she disappoint?
---
Kit's lighter clicked three times before catching.
He inhaled slow, smoke curling from his lips as he leaned against the balcony railing.
Sunlight sifted through the clouds above the Honey estate, silvering the world in dull light.
The marble beneath his bare feet stayed cold no matter how long the sun touched it.
Just like the house—gleaming, sterile, unforgiving.
His phone buzzed against the stone table behind him.
He didn't move.
He didn't have to look.
It wasn't her.
She'd left him on read.
Last night. This morning.
Not a word, but she'd seen it.
Not a silence born of accident.
A silence she chose.
Kit flicked ash off the edge of the balcony, jaw tight.
The door slid open behind him.
He didn't turn.
"I hope you're not smoking in anything from my side of the closet," came Sebastian's voice—
all silk and condescension, wrapped in expensive cologne and something colder underneath.
Kit exhaled slow, smoke curling up over his shoulder.
"What do you want."
Sebastian stepped outside, holding a small silver cufflink box.
Something sleek and unnecessary—like most of him.
His presence always arrived with the faint scent of bloodless ambition: aftershave and ownership papers.
"Big plans tonight?" he asked, already knowing. Already smug.
Kit shrugged, noncommittal. "Maybe."
Sebastian smiled. "Funny. So do I."
He didn't say her name.
Didn't have to.
The space between the words reeked of it.
Kit's jaw tensed. The cigarette burned closer to his skin.
Sebastian stepped forward, adjusting one cuff with slow, deliberate fingers. "She cleans up well, doesn't she?"
A beat.
"I imagine you'll see for yourself. Eventually."
There it was.
The taunt.
The warning wrapped in silk.
Kit ground the cigarette into the porcelain ashtray hard enough to threaten cracks.
Sebastian's tone turned mock-idle, like they were just brothers talking weather.
"You know, I've always wondered why you chase things you'll never be allowed to keep."
Kit turned then. Eyes flat. Voice low.
"You'd know all about chasing things that don't want you."
Sebastian smiled—slow, shark-like.
"Wanting's overrated."
He slid the cufflink into place. "Some things don't have to want you. They just have to be... arranged."
Then he turned, walking away with the self-satisfaction of someone who always gets the final word.
His shoes echoed sharp against the stone—
full stop. End of sentence.
Kit didn't follow.
Didn't breathe.
He didn't know exactly what Sebastian meant—
but he knew one thing for sure:
If his brother showed up where Delorah was supposed to be tonight...
He'd burn the whole fucking place down.
-------
The zipper caught halfway up.
Delorah swore under her breath, twisting awkwardly in front of the antique mirror. Her mom had bought the frame in Florence—silver vines curling like frostbitten ivy. It always looked like a portal to some colder version of herself.
Her phone buzzed on the vanity.
Kit
still planning on seeing you tonight?
She didn't open it.
The dress clung too smooth, too quiet.
Champagne pink. Elegant.
The kind of elegant that didn't belong to girls like her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection.
The girl in the mirror looked grown. Composed.
Like she might serve champagne at charity galas and never once snort crystal dust with a boy she barely knew.
A second buzz.
Cassie
uhhhh… hey. random but… you're not going to that party with that Kit guy again are you?
Her chest tightened. She closed the message. Didn't reply.
Delorah stood again, smoothing the dress where it clung wrong at her hips.
She reached for her earrings—then stopped.
Instead, she typed a message.
If I come tonight, don't make it weird.
She stared at the words for a long moment.
Then locked the screen without hitting send.
-----
"Yo," Tyler called from the living room. "Are you giving me a ride or not?"
Kit pulled his hoodie on over a half-dry shirt, water still dripping from the ends of his hair.
His bedroom looked like a crime scene:
Drawers half-open. Vinyl sleeves tossed like fallen feathers.
The scent of lemon cleaner clung to his hands. He wasn't even sure why he'd bothered wiping down the counters.
His phone lit up.
Not her.
Still no answer.
She wasn't coming.
Or maybe she was.
Maybe she just wanted him to squirm.
Either way, she was everywhere. In his ribs. His throat. The tremor in his fingers.
Sebastian's voice still echoed like a bruise: "She cleans up well, doesn't she?"
Kit opened a drawer. Pulled out a small silver tin.
Two white capsules tapped into his palm.
One—under the tongue.
The other—swallowed dry.
A jolt lit up behind his spine, sharp and familiar.
"Kit!" Tyler again, louder this time.
"Relax," Kit muttered, grabbing his keys. "Let's go get trashed."
He didn't want to care if she showed up.
Didn't want to.
But if she walked into that party in a dress that didn't belong to her—
Looking like someone else's perfect girl—
He knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
----
Delorah hadn't expected to feel nervous in her own house.
Not like this.
The dining room was spotless, glowing too bright under the chandelier. The polished wood gleamed like it was trying too hard. Her mother had set the table with full silver — linen napkins folded with precision, wine glasses aligned like soldiers. Formal. Staged. Wrong.
They hadn't eaten like this in months. Maybe years.
Her father stood by the sideboard, pouring red wine into crystal. Not just his glass. Hers too.
Delorah blinked. Sat up straighter.
They only gave her wine when they didn't want her asking questions.
Something heavy tightened in her chest — not panic, not yet. Just pressure. The kind that came before a storm.
A knock at the front door.
Her mother moved with choreographed grace, a pleased little smile tucked into the corner of her mouth as she disappeared into the foyer.
Delorah's fingers curled around the hem of her dress under the table.
Her father didn't look at her. "Be polite," he murmured, like a threat dressed as advice. "This meeting's important."
Meeting?
Her mom's earlier words had been "a friend of the family."
But now… it felt like something else. Orchestrated. Decided.
The sound of shoes on tile echoed through the hall, sharp and slow. Her mother's voice followed, smooth and sugary:
"Sebastian, welcome."
Her stomach dropped. No — plummeted.
Sebastian Honey stepped into the room like he'd always belonged there. Like he owned it.
His suit was perfect. Every line deliberate. Dark hair slicked back, smile sharpened to a blade. And his eyes—
They landed on her with slow precision, like he was unwrapping something.
"Delorah," he said smoothly, taking the seat beside her without waiting to be invited. "It's nice to see you… again."
She didn't flinch.
Didn't let the heat in her chest rise to her face.
She met his gaze evenly, voice calm despite the adrenaline sparking under her skin.
"Likewise."
Her mother beamed. "It's so nice you two already know each other — such a happy coincidence!"
Delorah opened her mouth, but Sebastian beat her to it.
"Oh, sure," he said breezily, accepting a glass of wine like he belonged there. "We ran into each other at my family's place. She and Kit were…"
He paused. Just long enough.
Eyes glinting.
"Getting to know each other."
Delorah's spine stiffened.
Her father raised a brow, amused. "Really?"
"Mmhm." Sebastian turned toward her with the kind of casualness that always felt rehearsed. "She seemed… comfortable there. Like she'd been over before."
Her smile came automatically. Polished. Hollow. "I hadn't. But your brother's very welcoming."
Sebastian gave a soft chuckle, swirling the wine in his glass. "Oh, he's a real charmer. Always has been. Though I do hope he wasn't too generous."
The words hit low.
She knew exactly what he meant. So did he.
And from the brief flicker in her mother's eyes — maybe she did too. But the moment passed, washed away by the hum of conversation and clinking silver.
Delorah's cheeks flushed. Not just from embarrassment — from fury. She reached for her glass, letting the wine cool her tongue before she spoke again.
But her parents were already on to lighter topics — travel plans, business ventures, a new charity gala next month. Their voices were warm, indulgent. The way people spoke when they believed everything was already decided.
Del barely heard them.
Sebastian sat beside her like a shadow draped in silk — smooth, immaculate, watching everything. His posture was perfect. Relaxed. But his presence radiated pressure, like a hand always hovering an inch from her throat.
She focused on her plate. Cut her chicken too carefully. Ate too slowly.
Twice, he refilled her glass without asking.
Once, their knees touched under the table — and he didn't move away.
The second time it happened, she adjusted slightly. So did he. Each time she pulled back, he followed. Just enough to make her aware of it. Just enough to make it clear she couldn't move far without it looking obvious.
At one point, he reached for the breadbasket — his hand brushing hers — and leaned in to murmur:
"You wore the dress."
His breath grazed her ear.
Delorah said nothing. Her grip on the butter knife tightened.
He gave a soft laugh, like she was amusing. Like she was trying to play the game but didn't know the rules yet.
Then — a new trick. His hand brushed crumbs from her place setting, then settled on the back of her chair. Possessive. Loose enough to look harmless, but there was weight in it. Claim.
She didn't look at him. Didn't push it off.
But she didn't lean in either.
The smile slipped from his face for half a second. Just a flicker.
Not annoyance — something darker. A flicker of curiosity. A puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
And then her mother — smiling like she wasn't setting the table for a future war — said lightly:
"Young people forming strong partnerships early in life... it's just so stabilizing, don't you think?"
Del felt the edges of her fork bite into her palm.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
Just pressed the tines deeper and smiled like it didn't hurt.
Sebastian didn't look away from her. His smile returned, slow and calculating.
Challenge accepted.
Her parents had retired to the sitting room, blissfully pleased with how dinner had gone—utterly unaware of the current running beneath it.
Delorah made a quiet excuse to slip away, something about a school project due Monday. She kept her steps even until she rounded the corner, chest tightening once she hit the hallway.
"Delorah."
She stopped.
Turned slowly.
Sebastian was leaning in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, his wine glass cradled in his hand like a prop he didn't need. His voice, when he spoke again, was as smooth as the vintage swirling in the glass.
"I was wondering how long you were planning to keep my brother around."
Delorah met his gaze evenly. "I don't think that's any of your business."
He stepped forward, calm and deliberate, stopping just short of invading her space. The air shifted.
"I don't care what you do with him," he said. "But you should know... Kit doesn't let people close unless he needs something. He's like our father that way."
Her frown deepened. "You don't know me."
That got him. A faint flicker of amusement, like a match being struck. He leaned in, the scent of cologne and wine ghosting across her cheek.
"No," he murmured. "But I know him. And I know how this ends. You and I both do, don't we?"
Delorah didn't flinch—at least not where he could see it. But her nails dug crescents into her palm, a silent rebellion.
Her voice was low. "Why were you even at the house that night, Sebastian?"
"To pick something up," he said.
Delorah didn't budge. "That vague charm might work on my parents. Try harder."
Sebastian raised a brow. "You think I'm charming?"
"I think you're dangerous when people stop paying attention."
That earned her a slow smile — not kind, not mocking. Just interested.
"Smart girl," he murmured. "So why aren't you running yet?"
"Maybe I'm not afraid of you."
"Maybe you should be." He stepped closer, just enough for her to catch it — a faint line beneath his left eye, nearly hidden beneath the edge of his concealer. A thin, pale ridge.
Kit had never mentioned a scar.
She hadn't noticed it before.
Old, maybe. But not old enough to have faded entirely.
And it definitely hadn't been there the last time they spoke.
"Because unlike my brother, I don't pretend to be anything I'm not."
"And what are you?"
His smile widened, lazy and lethal. "Whatever I need to be."
Delorah's breath caught for just a second — not out of fear. Something colder. Something that made her pulse rise for all the wrong reasons.
Sebastian circled slightly, not touching her, but close enough for tension to hum between them.
"You think Kit's the broken one?" he asked. "He's just the aftermath. I'm the reason the fire started in the first place."
She locked eyes with him. "You're proud of that?"
"I'm realistic." His tone shifted — darker, quieter. "People like us don't get fairy tale endings, Delorah. We get arranged marriages, secret deals, and things whispered behind closed doors."
A pause.
"Do you really think your family would let you end up with him?"
Delorah's jaw tightened.
"That's what I thought."
Sebastian looked almost sympathetic as he glanced toward the dim dining room. "You can play pretend for a while. But eventually, someone always calls in the debt."
She folded her arms, her voice like steel. "Then let them. I'd rather owe the devil than dance for him."
His grin returned, sharper now. "Good girl."
He turned as if to leave—then stopped, looking back over his shoulder.
"Just be careful, Delorah. Not all pretty things are meant to be held."
A beat. Then quieter, the echo of heat behind it:
"Some are made to burn."
The doorbell rang.
Sebastian blinked. "Well, that's surprising."
Delorah brushed past him, heart already hammering.
She opened the door—and there he was.
Kit stood on the porch, black hoodie half-zipped, hair tousled like he'd run his hands through it too many times. His jaw was tight, his shoulders set. He looked like a fuse already lit.
He didn't wait for an invitation. "You've been gone a while."
Her breath caught. "Kit, what are you—?"
Sebastian's voice came smooth and cutting from behind. "Little brother. Crashing dinner? How charming."
Kit didn't even blink at him. His eyes were fixed on her. "Come with me."
Delorah's brows lifted. "Come with you where?"
"There's a party," he said. "Somewhere loud. Pointless. Perfect for forgetting this kind of night." His voice dropped, quieter now. "I don't want to be alone. Not after what he said to me earlier. And I don't think you want to stay here much longer either."
She hesitated—just a breath—and felt Sebastian's presence behind her like pressure at the back of her neck.
"You don't have to say yes," Kit added. "But if you do… I won't let anyone touch you. You'll be safe with me."
There it was. Beneath all the sharpness and swagger—something soft. Careful.
Her throat tightened.
"I'll tell them I'm going to Cassie's," she said, already thumbing her phone awake.
Kit exhaled like he'd been holding the moment still.
"Good girl."
She stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her with deliberate quiet.
The storm inside could wait.
She had her own to chase.
----
The click of the front door was soft — but Sebastian heard it.
Delorah was gone.
He didn't turn. Didn't call after her. Not yet.
Instead, he stepped calmly into the sitting room, where her parents lounged with half-finished glasses of pinot and the smug glow of a well-executed evening. The fireplace crackled gently, casting golden light over gleaming silver frames and curated memories.
Sebastian slid into the empty spot on the leather sofa like he belonged there. Like the missing girl was no concern at all.
"She stepped out to see a friend," he said smoothly, preempting their question before it could rise. "Cassie, I think. She didn't want to interrupt the grown-up talk."
Delorah's mother gave a fond little smile. "That's thoughtful of her."
Her father nodded, swirling the wine in his glass. "We'll have more time with her tomorrow. I'm hoping we can speak a bit more seriously about… expectations."
Sebastian let the pause linger—just long enough to feel deliberate—before offering a faint smile. "I think she'll come around."
"And you?" her father asked, studying him over the rim of his glass. "Still open to the match?"
Sebastian's grin flicked up like a blade catching light. "I think it could be… mutually beneficial. She's got the spark our family's always lacked. And I'm not exactly difficult to get along with."
That earned a warm chuckle from her mother — which was exactly what he wanted.
But he didn't let the moment grow soft.
From inside his jacket, he retrieved a slim black folder. Leather-bound. Crisp. Unmistakably official.
He placed it on the coffee table with quiet ceremony, the way one might set down a weapon or a wager.
"I had my father's lawyers draw this up," he said, voice light but eyes sharp. "Nothing binding on her end—yet. Just a preliminary agreement. Outlines the benefits to both families. The charity merger. The publicity. The financial restructuring. My father's very pleased with the terms."
Delorah's father leaned forward slightly, interest piqued. "And your brother?"
Sebastian's smile didn't falter. "Kit doesn't need to know yet. He's… emotionally volatile. This is better handled delicately."
Her mother hesitated. "She's so young. And strong-willed. Do you think she'll actually go along with something like this?"
Sebastian swirled his wine slowly, watching the deep red cling to the glass. "Eventually? Yes. She's smart. She'll see the value in aligning herself with us. With me."
He set the wine down gently, folding his hands like a man preparing for a sermon.
"She needs structure. Legacy. A name that opens doors instead of closing them. And I can give her that. Once she's ready to stop playing with fire."
They didn't speak for a moment. Just the quiet hum of the fireplace and the muted clink of crystal against glass.
"She'll understand," he said finally. "Sometimes, people just need a little… guidance to see what's best for them."
And in his lap, his fingers tapped once against the folder.
A push.
Just enough to make it real.
Her father leaned in, fingertips brushing the corner of the folder as if testing its weight.
"And this would take effect when?"
"Public announcement pending," Sebastian said smoothly, "but the agreement outlines a one-year engagement term. We'd announce at the LaRoche charity gala this spring. Wedding late next year. All negotiable, of course."
Her mother glanced at her husband, then at Sebastian. "And Delorah?"
"She doesn't need to know yet," Sebastian repeated softly. "Let it unfold naturally. She's not the type to be strong-armed. But she is the type to fall for the illusion of choice."
That earned him a hum of approval.
Delorah's father flipped the folder open.
Inside: two copies. Initialed pages. Golden letterhead. The Honey family crest embossed at the top.
It didn't say "engagement" outright. Instead:
"Preliminary Familial Partnership Agreement Between the Houses of Honey and LaRoche."
Elegant. Deceptive.
Her father's brow furrowed only slightly as he read the summary, then nodded once.
"This is acceptable."
He reached for the fountain pen beside him on the tray — a LaRoche heirloom. Unscrewed the cap.
And signed.
Sebastian passed the second copy across the table.
Delorah's mother hesitated. "You're certain she'll come around?"
Sebastian looked her dead in the eye, and for a heartbeat, the wolf showed through the charm.
"She already has. She just doesn't know it yet."
Her mother signed.
The room held its breath as Sebastian gathered the contracts back into the folder — hands steady, expression unreadable.
"Thank you," he said softly, rising to his feet. "I'll have a courier deliver the final notarized copy by next week."
"Sebastian," her father said, standing to shake his hand. "We're pleased. Truly."
"I'm glad." He returned the shake — firm, respectful, practiced.
Then he turned toward the hallway Delorah had disappeared down, and his smile wilted to something quieter. Darker.
The contract was signed.
Now all that was left…
was convincing the girl it was love.