The Red Queen
1409 Words
The dress arrived in a black box tied with a silver ribbon.
There was no note. Just the dress.
Clara lifted it out of the tissue paper. It was silk, the color of deep, arterial blood. It was backless, with a plunging neckline and a slit that ran dangerously high up her thigh. It wasn't just a dress; it was a weapon designed to draw every eye in the room.
"Mr. Blackwood has good taste," Martha said, fastening the diamond necklace around Clara’s throat. "Red is a power color. It tells them you are not afraid to bleed."
"That’s comforting," Clara muttered, staring at her reflection. She applied a coat of dark crimson lipstick. The woman in the mirror looked fierce. She looked like she belonged to the mafia.
When she walked down the stairs, Lucian was waiting in the foyer.
He was wearing a black tuxedo, tailored to perfection, with a black bow tie. He looked devastatingly handsome, but his expression was grim. He was checking his phone, typing furiously.
He stopped when he heard her heels on the marble. He looked up.
His phone lowered slowly to his side. His grey eyes darkened, sweeping over her from the diamonds at her throat to the slit in the skirt. He didn't smile, but the air in the room seemed to charge with static.
"Too much?" Clara asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze.
Lucian walked over to her. He stopped a foot away, his eyes locked on hers.
"No," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "It is exactly enough. You look... lethal."
He held out his elbow. "Shall we go to war, Mrs. Blackwood?"
The Governor’s Ball was held at the Grand Chicago Hotel. It was a sea of old money, corruption, and fake smiles.
As Lucian and Clara entered, the room went quiet. The "Prince of Darkness" had arrived with his new bride.
"Keep smiling," Lucian whispered, his hand resting possessively on the small of her bare back. His skin was warm against hers. "And remember: you are the most important person in this room. Act like it."
Clara lifted her chin. She channeled the feeling of the gun in her hand from yesterday. I am powerful, she told herself. I am safe.
They moved through the crowd. Lucian was charming, ruthless, and protective. He introduced her to judges and generals, his arm never leaving her waist. Every time a man looked at her too long, Lucian’s grip tightened, his eyes flashing a silent warning.
"Lucian!" A silky voice cut through the chatter.
A woman approached them. She was stunning, with raven-black hair and a gold dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes were dark and calculating.
Lucian stiffened slightly. "Sofia."
"I heard the rumors," the woman, Sofia, purred, looking Clara up and down with amusement. "But I didn't believe them. You actually married."
"Clara," Lucian said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is Sofia Moretti. Her father runs the South Side."
Moretti. A rival family. Clara’s stomach clenched.
"A pleasure," Clara said, extending her hand.
Sofia ignored the hand. She stepped closer to Lucian, placing a manicured hand on his lapel. "I was surprised, Lucian. I thought our families had an... understanding. I thought we had an understanding."
"Business changes," Lucian said coldly, removing her hand from his suit. "And I am a married man now, Sofia. Show some respect."
Sofia laughed. "Respect? For this?" She gestured to Clara. "She’s pretty, I’ll give you that. But does she know what you did to the last one? Does she know she’s just a placeholder until the Board confirms your seat?"
Clara felt a flare of anger. Not fear—anger. She remembered the target practice. She remembered her father.
"I know exactly who I am," Clara interrupted, stepping forward. She moved into Sofia’s space, forcing the other woman to take a step back. "I am the woman wearing his ring. And you are the woman trying to flirt with a married man in front of half of Chicago. It’s embarrassing, Sofia. You should stop."
Sofia’s eyes widened. Lucian went very still.
"Excuse me?" Sofia hissed.
"You heard me," Clara said, her voice calm and deadly. "Lucian chose me. If you have a problem with that, take it up with him. But do not disrespect me again."
For a second, Clara thought Sofia might slap her. But then, Lucian let out a low, dark chuckle.
"You heard my wife," Lucian said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Run along, Sofia. before you embarrass your father."
Sofia glared at them both, her face flushing red. "This isn't over, Lucian."
She spun on her heel and stormed off.
Lucian turned to Clara. His eyes were shining.
"I didn't tell you to do that," he murmured, looking at her with a mix of shock and admiration.
"She was annoying me," Clara shrugged. "And she was touching your suit."
Lucian stared at her. Then, he leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear.
"You are dangerous, Clara," he whispered. "I think I like it."
"Good," Clara whispered back, her heart racing. "Because I need a drink."
They escaped to the balcony for fresh air. The city lights twinkled below them, a sprawling grid of gold and black.
Lucian leaned against the stone railing, watching her. He handed her a glass of champagne he had swiped from a waiter.
"You handled Sofia well," he said. "The Morettis are vultures. If you show weakness, they attack."
"I'm tired of being weak," Clara admitted, taking a sip. "I'm tired of being the victim."
"You are not a victim anymore," Lucian said. "You are a Blackwood."
He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. The touch sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold wind.
"Clara," he said softly. "About what she said... about you being a placeholder."
"It's true, isn't it?" Clara looked at him. "It's a one-year contract. Then I'm gone."
Lucian didn't answer immediately. He looked at her mouth. Then he looked at the star-shaped birthmark on her neck.
"A year is a long time," he murmured. "A lot can change in a year."
He stepped closer. The space between them vanished. He put his hand on her waist, pulling her flush against him. The heat of his body was overwhelming.
"Lucian?" Clara whispered.
"I told you not to fall in love with me," he said, his voice rough. "But I didn't say anything about desire."
Clara’s breath hitched. "Is that a rule too?"
"No," Lucian said. "That is a warning."
He lowered his head. His lips hovered inches from hers. He was going to kiss her. Not for the cameras. Not for the crowd. For them.
Clara closed her eyes, tilting her head back. She wanted it. God help her, she wanted the Devil to kiss her.
BZZZZT.
Lucian’s phone vibrated violently in his pocket.
The spell broke. Lucian pulled back, a curse slipping from his lips. He pulled out his phone.
His face went pale. The cold, ruthless mask slammed back into place instantly.
"What is it?" Clara asked, sensing the shift.
"We have to go," Lucian said, grabbing her hand. "Now."
"Why? What happened?"
"There’s been a breach," Lucian said, pulling her toward the exit. "At the estate."
Clara’s blood ran cold. "Dante is at the estate. Who is there?"
"Nobody who was invited," Lucian grimaced. "Someone broke into the West Wing."
"The West Wing?" Clara gasped, running to keep up with him. "What's in the West Wing?"
Lucian didn't answer. He shoved through the doors, his grip on her hand bruising.
"Lucian! What is in the West Wing?"
He stopped at the elevator, jamming the button. He looked at her, and for the first time, Clara saw genuine fear in his eyes. Not for himself. But for whatever secret he was hiding.
"My past," he whispered. "And if they touch it... I will kill them all."
(To be continued...)
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