BLOOD AND DIAMONDS

Lucian Blackthorn hated weddings. Especially when they were his. He stood at the edge of the ballroom like a storm trapped in a tailored suit — still, silent, dangerous. The chandelier above glimmered like falling stars, reflecting off polished marble floors and gold-dusted walls. The guests, all dressed in wealth and whispers, danced and drank around him, oblivious to the truth. They saw a union of two powerful empires. A merger disguised as matrimony. They didn’t see the assassin behind the Armani. Lucian adjusted the cuff of his black suit, revealing the edge of a silver ring. It was the only piece of his past he allowed himself to wear. The rest he had buried — along with the bodies. He was the CEO of Blackthorn Estate Wines. Charming. Cold. Untouchable. But in the underworld, he was something else entirely: a ghost, a shadow, a name whispered before death. His next target was arriving now. The grand doors creaked open. And then she stepped in. Saraphina Devereux. His bride. His mark. She descended the staircase like she owned it, and maybe she did — or at least used to. Her gown shimmered in shades of ivory and silver, diamonds laced across her bodice like armor. Her skin glowed against the soft candlelight. Her hair cascaded in silky waves over her shoulders, and her full lips — painted a deep, wine-red — curled into a faint, unreadable smile. Beautiful. Confident. Dangerous, in her own way. But Lucian noticed something else. Sadness. She carried it like perfume — subtle but always there. In the way her shoulders didn’t quite rise. In the way her eyes, despite their fire, looked like they’d spent too long in the dark. He knew that look. He wore it, too. Saraphina’s hazel eyes locked with his as she reached the floor. Her steps were measured, graceful, like she’d been raised on etiquette and walked through hell. Lucian didn’t move as she approached. His body remained still, posture perfect, face unreadable. A man carved from stone, with a heart buried somewhere beneath it. She stopped just inches from him. “You must be the reason I had to cancel my trip to Santorini,” she said, her voice smooth, sweet, and laced with disdain. “Saraphina. But I assume you already know that.” He looked down at her gloved hand, then back up into her face. “I make it a point to know the names of the women I’m forced to marry,” he replied coolly. He didn’t take her hand. Not yet. “Lucian Blackthorn.” Her smile tightened. She was used to control — so was he. Two rulers, one crown. “Charmed,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “This is going to be delightful.” “Isn’t it?” They stood in silence for a beat too long — the world around them fading into background noise. Then, as if on cue, the photographers began clicking. Guests clapped, champagne flowed, and the orchestra swelled. It was all a lie. Lucian leaned in slightly, just enough so she could hear him over the music. “Let’s get something clear,” he said, his voice a low warning. “You don’t like me. I don’t like you. We play nice in public, we do what we have to, and when this farce is over—” “—We go our separate ways?” Saraphina finished, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. “Fine. But until then, don’t touch my company, don’t talk about my mother, and don’t assume you know me.” Her eyes burned. Not with anger. With pain. Lucian stared at her for a moment, the assassin inside him calculating every word, every breath. He hadn’t expected this. She was meant to be spoiled. Fragile. A pawn. But this woman — this woman had fire in her bones. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to protect her. Or destroy her.