Four

The note didn’t come from her father’s hand.

It came through Darius.

He stood at the doorway of her room, black suit crisp, posture sharp, holding the folded card as though it carried the weight of an order. Which, of course, it did.

“Your father expects you at tonight’s gala,” he said, voice even, unreadable. “He wants you dressed at your best.”

Amara sat by her mirror, comb running through her hair, and for a while she paused. She didn’t need to open the note to know the words were cold and harsh. Her father never asked he dictated. Even through messengers. Now through Darius.

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Daddy get what he wantever he wants right?”

Darius didn’t move, He waited, watching her reflection in the mirror. His eyes sharp, unblinking met hers through the mirror, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. There was no warmth in them, no softness, but something lingered. A weight.

It made her pulse catch, and she hated that it did.

“Staring is impolite,” she muttered, turning her gaze back to the comb.

His voice was low, steady. “So is ignoring your father’s command.”

Her hand tightened on the comb. She wanted to snap back, to throw the words like knives, but she didn’t. Instead, she set the comb down and rose to her feet, silk robe trailing behind her.

“I’ll get dress.”

Darius gave a single nod, the faintest acknowledgment, then glanced at the clock on her wall. “The car is ready. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Still cold. Still unreadable.

But she noticed the way his gaze lingered half a second too long as she crossed the room, the way his jaw tightened before he turned away.

Amara got dressed Crimson silk, off her shoulders,  she chose the dress intentionally it was a colour her father never liked because it made her stand out. A color that made her feel like a warning sign.

When she stepped downstairs, Darius was waiting. His eyes swept over her, quick and sharp, as if savouring every detail. His expression didn’t change, but she caught the smallest pause before he spoke.

“That will do.”

She arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

He ignored the jab. “Come. The car.”

His hand didn’t touch her, but the space between them hummed like a live wire as they walked side by side through the estate’s long corridors. Servants dipped their heads as they passed, and Amara wondered what they thought if they saw her as the princess on display, and Darius as the shadow tethered to her.

Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the distant hum of Valeforte. The car waited sleek, black, a symbol of her father’s reach.

Darius opened the door for her, his face as impassive as ever. But when she slipped inside and glanced up at him, she swore something flickered in his eyes.  The door shut, cutting her off from it.

The drive was silent.

Amara leaned against the leather seat, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. Valeforte was alive tonight, neon lights streaking across dark streets, towers clawing at the sky. Somewhere below, people lived, fought, and bled, all without knowing her name. She envied them.

Darius sat across from her, every inch of him composed. One hand rested lightly against his knee, the other near the inside of his jacket close enough to the gun she knew he carried. Always prepared. Always alert.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to. The cut of his jaw, the scar faintly visible near his temple, the way his presence filled the car without effort.

As if sensing her stare, his eyes lifted, locking with hers.

Her throat tightened.

Neither of them spoke.

Then the car slowed, breaking the spell, and Darius looked away as if nothing had passed between them at all.

,” he said. “We’ve arrived .”

His voice was cold again. Detached.

The car rolled to a stop before the Glasshall, Valeforte’s pride a tower structured of steel and mirrored windows that reflected the night sky. Light spilled out through tall panes, music humming faintly even from the street.

A place meant to dazzle.

A place meant to remind everyone who owned it.

Her father.

The driver stepped out and hurried to open the door, but Darius was already there. He stood tall, shadowed under the glow of the streetlamps, one hand outstretched.

Amara hesitated only a moment before slipping her hand into his. His grip was steady, firm, not lingering. But the brief contact sent an unwanted rush of heat up her arm.

She pulled back as soon as her heels touched the pavement.

“Stay close,” Darius said, voice low, meant only for her. “Crowds are not always what they seem.”

The words weren’t a suggestion. They were an order.

Her gaze lifted to the Glasshall’s entrance lined with guards, guests dripping in jewels, the weight of power and hunger pressing outward like a tide and she stayed quiet.

Inside, the air was warm, perfumed with wine and polished wealth. Chandeliers dripped gold light over marble floors. Strings swelled in the corner, and laughter rang sharp against crystal glasses.

Eyes turned toward her the moment she entered. She could hear the whispers

There she is the Dervino heirress, the family’s jewel.

Amara straightened her shoulders, sliding the mask of poise into place. She was used to this being seen, being assessed like a prize horse at a market. What she wasn’t used to was the man at her side.

Darius drew attention of his own, though not in the same way. His presence was quiet, watchful, but it commanded space. The cut of his suit, the hard set of his face, the aura that spoke not of wealth but danger. A weapon in a room full of players.

And yet, even as he scanned the crowd, his gaze flicked back to her. Quick. Sharpened. As though he was measuring her in this place, deciding if she belonged here at all.

Her father found her before she could find him.

Don Matteo Drevino was surrounded, of course, by men in suits, women in gowns, all smiling too wide, their voices pitched too high with their fake smiles and compliments. His eyes landed on her, the group shifted like waves parting for a ship.

“Amara,” he said, his smile practiced, his voice carrying. “My darling “.

She kissed his cheek, his cologne cloying. “Dad.”

He pulled back, studying her with the same eye he used for acquisitions. And leaned closer as whispers into her ears

“You should have wore something brighter, I won't let you ruin the night for me”  he let go of her shoulders with a big smile on his face.

She knew nothing she did ever pleased him

His gaze slid to Darius, who bowed his head slightly but said nothing. Her father didn’t address him. Didn’t need to. Darius’s presence was expected, as natural as a weapon on his belt.

“Enjoy yourself tonight,” her father said, though his tone made clear it was another command.

“You say your greetings to The Veylan. Their son has an interest in you.”

The words slid like ice into her stomach. She nodded, because she always nodded. “Yes, Dad.”

He moved on, swept back into the sea of power brokers and predators, leaving her standing under the weight of the room.

Amara let out a slow breath.

Darius stood close enough that his shoulder brushed hers when the crowd shifted. She glanced up at him.

His eyes weren’t on her father. They were on her.

“You don’t have to stare,” she whispered, irritation sharper than she meant.

“Then stop drawing attention,” he replied, calm.

Her lips parted, ready to bite back, but the words caught. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because, even as he said it, his gaze lingered not on the crowd, not on the exits, but on her.

For just a heartbeat, his cold mask cracked.

Then it was gone, shuttered, as though it had never been there.

The gala swirled around her wine, whispers, offers hidden behind smiles. Amara played her part, though her skin felt too tight under her father’s orders. Every laugh was forced, every gesture measured.

And through it all, Darius was there. Always a step behind, a shadow that pressed against her spine. When men leaned too close, his presence cut them back. When she drifted toward the edges, his voice, low and even, anchored her.

“Not there.”

“Stay where the crowd is thickest.”

“Don’t take that drink.”

Each warning made her irritated. Each one reminded her she was watched, caged.

And yet… when she caught his eyes once more across the glittering room, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to escape him at all.