Ethan Blackthorn's Point Of View.
The night was beautiful, not the kind of beauty that made poets weep but the kind that bled. The chandeliers glowed like dying stars, the air hummed with laughter, and every polished smile below was just a mask waiting to crack. I stood above them all, glass in hand, watching from the balcony like a god admiring the fragile world he built just to destroy and in the center of it, was her.
Emily. Emily Rosewood.
She did not belong here, not with these painted dolls and silver-tongued monsters pretending to be human. There was something painfully real about her, something soft that did not match this rotten, glittering place. It made her stand out, like a drop of blood on white silk.
I tilted my head, a slow smile curving my lips as I watched her chest r
