The Shadow King's Deceit

Mallory

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

The voice is pure sugar, spun fine enough to hide the arsenic underneath. I don’t have to turn to know it’s my stepsister, Seraphina. I feel her presence like a change in air pressure, a drop that promises a storm.

I keep my eyes fixed on the city lights glittering through the panoramic window of the hotel ballroom. Our hotel ballroom. My father’s name is etched into the marble by the entrance. Tonight, that feels less like a legacy and more like the engraving on a tombstone.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say, taking a long swallow of champagne. The bubbles sting, a welcome distraction. It’s my third glass. Or maybe my fourth. The number stopped mattering when I saw her walk in on his arm.

“It means so much to us that you came to celebrate,” she continues, moving to stand beside me. The scent of her perfume, a cloying gardenia, invades my space. She places a hand on her perfectly rounded stomach, a gesture that is anything but maternal. It’s a declaration of victory. “Julian was so worried you’d be… upset.”

I finally turn, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Upset? Why would I be upset? It’s a party.”

Her own smile is a masterpiece of feigned sympathy. She’s dressed in a cream-colored silk gown that showcases her pregnancy like a trophy. She won. The prize is standing ten feet away, laughing with some business associate, looking every bit the conquering hero.

Julian. My Julian. For eight years, he was my Julian.

“Well, after everything…” she trails off, letting the words hang in the air between us. Everything. Eight years of my life, a shared apartment, plans for a future, all erased and rewritten with her as the heroine.

“It’s very adult of you to be so gracious,” she adds, her eyes flicking over my simple black dress with subtle disdain. “Some women would make a scene.”

“I’m not some women,” I reply, my voice tight. My grip on the champagne flute is the only thing keeping my hand from shaking.

“No, you’re not.” Julian’s voice, deep and smooth, joins the conversation. He slides an arm around Seraphina’s waist, pulling her against his side and kissing her temple. The gesture is so familiar it physically hurts to watch. He used to do that to me.

“I told you Mallory would handle this with class,” he says to her, but his eyes are on me. They’re filled with a mixture of pity and condescension that makes my stomach churn. “Glad you’re here, El. Truly.”

He calls me El. No one else has ever called me that.

“Wouldn’t miss my own public execution,” I mutter into my glass, but it’s too quiet for them to hear over the string quartet.

“What was that?” Julian asks, leaning in slightly.

“I said, it looks like a beautiful occasion,” I say louder, my smile stretched painfully thin.

“Only the best for my Seraphina,” he beams, stroking her belly. “And for our little one.”

The word ‘our’ hits me like a punch to the gut. I drain the rest of my champagne in one go, the cold liquid doing nothing to numb the fire in my chest. I set the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and immediately grab a fresh one.

“Easy there,” Julian says, his tone shifting to that of a concerned parent. “You know how you get when you’ve had too many.”

It’s a low blow, a reference to a single night a year ago when I got emotional at a Christmas party after my mother’s death anniversary. He’s using it now, here, to paint me as unstable. To justify his betrayal.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I say, my voice dangerously calm.

Seraphina gives Julian’s arm a little squeeze. “Julian, be nice. Of course she’s emotional. It’s a big night. Our engagement, the baby announcement… it’s a lot to take in.” She looks at me, her eyes wide and deceptively innocent. “We just want you to be happy for us.”

Happy for you. The phrase echoes in the hollow space where my heart used to be. Happy that my stepsister, who moved in with my father and me after her own mother died, who I treated like my own blood, stole the man I was supposed to marry.

“I’m ecstatic,” I say, the word tasting like acid. I raise my glass in a mock toast. “To the happy couple. May you get everything you deserve.”

The double meaning hangs in the air, sharp and clear to me, but they choose to hear only the polite sentiment. Julian claps his hand on my shoulder, a gesture of dismissal.

“That’s my girl. Always a good sport.” He turns his attention back to the room. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, darling, I believe my father wants to make a toast.”

He leads a glowing Seraphina toward the small stage at the far end of the ballroom. I watch them go, my hand trembling so badly the champagne sloshes over the rim of the glass. A good sport. He makes it sound like I lost a tennis match, not the entire future I had built my life around.

The crowd quiets as Julian’s father, a man whose approval I spent years trying to earn, takes the microphone. His speech is a gushing tribute to the perfect couple, to new beginnings, to the merging of two powerful families. Every word is a fresh cut.

I can’t listen to this. I turn away, my back to the stage, and scan the crowd of smiling, gossiping faces. They’re all watching the spectacle, but I can feel their sideways glances. They’re watching me, too. The jilted ex-fiancée. The tragic figure in the corner. Their pity is suffocating.

My gaze drifts past the clusters of designer suits and jewel-draped necks, landing on a figure standing alone near a marble column. He’s not part of their world. I can tell instantly. While everyone else is dressed in tailored tuxedos that scream old money, he wears a simple, dark suit that fits him perfectly but lacks the ostentatious branding of the others. It’s his stillness that catches me. He isn’t talking, or networking, or trying to be seen. He’s just watching.

Watching me.

His eyes are dark, and his expression is unreadable. There’s no pity there. No curiosity. It’s an unnerving intensity, a focused assessment that makes me feel seen in a way that’s entirely different from the pitying stares of the crowd. He sees the fury I’m trying to choke down with champagne. He sees the cracks in my carefully constructed composure.

As Julian’s father finishes his toast to thunderous applause, an idea, born of desperation and alcohol, sparks in my mind. It’s reckless. It’s self-destructive. It’s perfect.

I’m not going to be their tragic figure. I’m not going to slink out of here and cry myself to sleep. If they want a scene, I’ll give them one they’ll be talking about for months.

He will be my revenge.

My heart starts hammering against my ribs, a wild, frantic beat. I put my half-full champagne glass down on a table with a decisive click. I smooth down my dress, lift my chin, and start walking.

The ballroom feels a hundred miles wide. Every step is a conscious effort. The plush carpet muffles the sound of my heels, but in my head, each footfall is a drumbeat counting down to detonation. I don’t look at Julian or Seraphina, but I feel their eyes on me as I bypass the stage and head directly for the man in the corner.

He doesn’t move as I approach. He just watches me come, his gaze never wavering. It’s like he’s been waiting.

I stop a foot in front of him. Up close, he’s even more striking. Sharp jaw, dark hair that’s just a little too long, and eyes that seem to see right through me.

“You look incredibly bored,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected.

One corner of his mouth lifts in a ghost of a smile. “The champagne is mediocre and the conversation is worse. I was considering leaving.”

“Don’t,” I say, the word coming out with more force than I intended.

His dark eyes hold mine. “Give me a reason to stay.”

This is it. The point of no return. I take a breath, the air thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of self-important chatter.

“I need a favor,” I say.

“I’m not in the business of favors,” he replies, his voice a low, smooth baritone.

“Then consider it a business proposition.”

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

“I need an escort,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. Julian and Seraphina are watching us now, their smiles frozen, confusion dawning on their faces. Perfect. “Out of this party. Right now.”

“An escort,” he repeats, the word laced with amusement. “And what’s in it for me?”

I look him straight in the eye, letting him see the raw, jagged edges of my desperation. “Anything you want. But we leave together. We make sure everyone sees us leave together. Especially them.” I nod discreetly in their direction.

He follows my gaze, taking in the happy couple, the adoring crowd, the whole sickening tableau. His eyes linger on Julian for a moment before returning to me. He sees the entire story in a single glance.

I expect him to laugh, to dismiss me as some drunken, scorned woman. I expect him to turn me down flat.

Instead, he says, “Public humiliation is a messy business.”

“I’m not the one who’s going to be humiliated,” I promise, a fierce, unfamiliar confidence surging through me.

A slow smile spreads across his lips, transforming his face. It’s a dangerous, captivating smile that makes the air crackle.

“Alright,” he says, his voice dropping lower, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’ll be your proposition.”

He pushes off from the column and offers me his arm. The fabric of his suit is cool and solid beneath my fingers. His presence is a shield, an anchor in the swirling chaos of the room.

“My name is Victor,” he says as we begin to walk toward the grand exit.

“Mallory,” I reply.

We don’t rush. We walk with a deliberate, unhurried pace, a silent, unified front. The crowd parts before us. The whispers follow in our wake. I can feel Julian’s stare burning into my back. Seraphina’s too.

We’re almost at the doors when Julian’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Mallory? Where are you going?”

I stop, but I don’t turn around. Victor stops with me, his arm a warm, steady pressure against mine.

“I’m leaving,” I say, my voice ringing with a clarity that surprises me. I finally turn to face him, a real smile touching my lips for the first time all night. It feels powerful. It feels free.

Julian’s face is a mask of disbelief and fury. Seraphina looks utterly bewildered, her hand protectively on her stomach as if I’m a direct threat.

“You’re leaving with… him?” Julian asks, his gaze flicking to Victor with open contempt.

“Yes,” I say simply. “It seems I got a better offer.”

Victor’s grip tightens ever so slightly on my arm, a silent signal of support. He looks at Julian, his expression utterly unimpressed, and then he guides me through the ornate doors, out of the ballroom and into the unknown, leaving the wreckage of my old life behind in a stunned, suffocating silence.