Clara
“No. Absolutely not.”
Lena stands in my doorway, holding up a dress that is less a dress and more a whisper of dark red silk. It would not survive a brisk walk, let alone a firefight.
“Oh, come on, Aria. It’s Elysium. You can’t show up in your usual funeral attire.”
“My ‘funeral attire’ is classic. And black is slimming.”
“Everything is slimming on you,” she says, tossing the red scrap onto my bed. “You need to wear color. You need to look like you’re alive and not like you’re on your way to read a rich husband’s will.”
I pick up the dress. It feels like nothing in my hands. Dangerous.
“It has a slit up to my ribcage, Lena.”
“Exactly. It’s perfect.” She grins, that bright, world conquering smile that I pay for in blood and silence. “Live a little. For me? For my ninety eight percent in History of Pigments?”
I sigh. It is a long, drawn out sound of complete and utter defeat. This is her celebration. Her night. I can endure a ridiculous dress for her. I can endure anything for her.
“Fine,” I say, holding it up against me. “But if I trip and flash the entire club, I’m billing you for therapy.”
“Deal.” She claps her hands. “Now, hurry. The chariot of the masses, otherwise known as the C train, awaits.”
An hour later, I am a different person. I am Aria, a woman who wears a ridiculous red dress and stands in line for an overpriced club. The bass from inside Elysium thumps through the pavement, a steady, primal heartbeat. Lena bounces on the balls of her feet next to me, vibrating with an energy I can’t remember ever possessing.
“Can you believe we’re actually here?” she whispers, her eyes wide as she takes in the velvet rope and the bouncers who look like they eat bricks for breakfast.
I scan the entrance. Two men on the door. One watching the line. At least two more inside, visible from here. All wired. I note the exits. The fire escape on the adjacent building. The flow of the crowd. Old habits.
I force them down. I am Aria. I am a freelance event planner. I am here to celebrate my sister’s academic victory.
“It’s just a building, Lena.”
“It’s an experience,” she corrects, grabbing my arm as the line moves. “It’s the beginning of the best night ever.”
The bouncer barely glances at our IDs before waving us through. Inside, it’s a different world. A cavern of sound and light, bodies moving like one single organism under strobing purples and blues. The air is thick with the smell of expensive perfume, sweat, and spilled champagne.
Lena pulls me toward the bar. “First round is on the genius.”
“As it should be,” I say, letting her order for us. She gets herself something pink and sugary and hands me a simple vodka soda. She knows me well. At least, the version of me she is allowed to know.
“Okay,” she shouts over the music, leaning close. “My mission is to find a cute artist type to discuss pigment history with. Your mission is to not stand in a corner and look like you’re plotting a murder. Got it?”
I take a sip of my drink. The irony is a bitter taste on my tongue. “I’ll try my best.”
She gives me a quick hug, her joy infectious. “Be right back. Don’t move from this spot unless you’re being swept off your feet by a handsome stranger.”
She disappears into the dancing crowd, a flash of blonde hair and boundless hope. I stay at the bar, a still point in a swirling universe of chaos. I watch people. A couple arguing in hushed, angry tones. A group of girls taking endless photos. A man in a tailored suit, discreetly passing a thick envelope to another.
This is my world, even when I am pretending it is not. A world of transactions and secrets, just with a better soundtrack.
“You look like you’re calculating the structural integrity of the building.”
The voice is deep. Smooth. It cuts through the noise and lands right next to my ear. I turn my head slowly. He is tall, dressed in a dark suit that fits him like it was custom made. Which it probably was. His hair is dark, his jaw is sharp, and his eyes are a startling shade of whiskey brown. They are also fixed on me with an unnerving intensity.
“Close,” I say. “I was deciding which exit to use in case of a fire.”
He smiles. It is a small, knowing thing that makes the corner of his eye crinkle. He does not look away.
“Always have a plan. I can appreciate that.” He gestures to the bartender, who appears instantly. “Let me buy you a real drink. That water you have there looks tragic.”
“I like my tragic water, thank you.”
“A woman who knows what she wants.” He leans an elbow on the bar, creating a small space around us, an invisible bubble in the chaos. “So, are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Neither. I’m here on parole.”
He actually laughs at that. A real, deep laugh that is more surprising than his sudden appearance. “Then we have something in common.”
“Oh yeah? What were you in for?”
“I own the prison.”
His confidence is a physical thing. It radiates from him, effortless and absolute. It is not the brutish arrogance of Luca Ricci. This is something else. Something refined. Sharper.
More dangerous.
“Well, the decor is a little loud for a maximum security facility,” I say, taking another sip of my drink.
“We cater to a specific clientele.” His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips, then back up. “My name is Ronan.”
He does not offer a hand to shake. He just says his name like it is a fact of life. Like the sky is blue and his name is Ronan.
“Aria,” I say. The lie feels smoother tonight than it usually does.
“Aria.” He tastes the name, rolling it over his tongue. “It suits you. It sounds like a secret.”
“And Ronan sounds like an epic poem full of suffering and damnation.”
“You’re not wrong.” His smile widens. “So, Aria of the secrets, what brings you to my prison tonight?”
“My sister. She’s celebrating.”
“And you are her reluctant chaperone?”
“Something like that.”
“Every good party needs a reluctant chaperone. It keeps things from getting too predictable.” He signals the bartender again, and this time a glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. An old fashioned.
“You don’t look like the predictable type,” I say, surprising myself.
“And you look like you could start a war or end one, and I can’t decide which.”
My breath catches in my throat for a fraction of a second. No one has ever looked at me and seen anything close to the truth. Not like that. He sees the fire, not just the ice I use to contain it.
“Maybe I do both,” I say, my voice a little lower than before.
“I have no doubt.”
We are quiet for a moment, the music and the crowd fading into a dull roar. There is a current passing between us, something electric and hot and completely reckless. I should walk away. I should find Lena and tell her I have a headache and go home. Back to my quiet, safe, compartmentalized life.
But I do not move. I am tired of being safe. I am tired of being a ghost.
Tonight, just for tonight, I want to be seen.
Ronan seems to understand this. He does not push. He just stands there, watching me over the rim of his glass. Lena reappears then, her face flushed from dancing. She skids to a stop when she sees him.
“Oh. Hi.” She looks from Ronan to me, her eyes wide with questions.
“Lena, this is Ronan,” I say. “Ronan, my sister, Lena.”
“The reason for the celebration,” Ronan says, giving Lena a charming smile that has her blushing instantly. “A pleasure to meet you. Aria was just telling me you’re a genius.”
“She was?” Lena looks at me, surprised and pleased. “Well, I wouldn’t say genius. Just… exceptionally brilliant.”
I roll my eyes, but I am smiling. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Oh, I think I have to.” He looks back at me. “Brilliance should always be encouraged.”
Another song starts, this one with a slower, heavier beat. Lena grabs my arm.
“You guys should dance,” she says, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. Before I can protest, she adds, “I see the cute artist type. Wish me luck.”
She winks and vanishes back into the crowd.
Ronan raises an eyebrow at me. “An order from the genius.”
“It was more of a suggestion.”
“It sounded like an order to me.” He sets his glass down and offers me his hand. “One dance. As a favor to your parole officer.”
My mind screams no. Don’t touch him. Don’t get closer. Don’t lose control. My hand, however, has other ideas. It lifts and settles into his, his fingers closing around mine, warm and strong.
He leads me to the edge of the dance floor. The lights are dimmer here. He pulls me close, his hand resting on the small of my back, right on the bare skin exposed by the cut of the dress. A jolt, sharp and hot, goes through me.
We move to the music. It is not really dancing. It is just swaying. Breathing. Existing in this small circle of space that feels like the only place in the universe. His suit smells like expensive wool and something clean, like citrus and cedar. He smells like power.
“So what do you do when you’re not supervising convicts, Ronan?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
“I’m in the family business,” he says. “Imports and exports.”
It is a vague, classic answer. The kind of answer that means anything but what it says. I should care. I should press him for details, analyze the lie. I do not.
“And what about you, Aria? What do you do when you’re not planning fires?”
“I plan parties,” I say. The lie is so practiced, but it feels flimsy in his presence. As if he can see right through it.
“I would come to one of your parties,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. “I bet they’re unforgettable.”
His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. My carefully constructed walls, the ones I have spent years building and reinforcing, begin to crumble. The vodka must be stronger than I thought. Or maybe he is.
I don’t know how long we dance. One song blends into the next. The club disappears. Lena disappears. All that exists is the thrum of the bass and the heat of his hand on my skin.
Eventually, the music fades into a temporary lull between songs. We stop moving but we don’t pull apart.
“I should find my sister,” I say, but I make no move to leave.
“She looks like she’s having a good time.” He nods his head toward the bar, and I see Lena laughing with a young man with paint-splattered jeans. She is safe. She is happy.
He looks back at me. “Let her have her night.”
“And what about my night?”
“I think it’s just beginning.” His eyes hold mine, and there is a silent question in them. A proposition. An invitation to a place where there are no secrets, no lies, just this raw, undeniable pull between us.
I have spent my entire adult life making calculated decisions. Every move is planned. Every outcome weighed. I live by a strict set of rules designed for one purpose: survival.
Tonight, I break them all.
I nod. Just a small, almost imperceptible movement.
It is all the answer he needs.
He leads me away from the dance floor, his hand never leaving the small of my back. He retrieves our coats, tips the attendant an obscene amount, and guides me out into the cool night air. The city sounds muted, distant. My head is swimming with vodka and the scent of his cologne.
A sleek black car, the kind that costs more than my apartment, waits at the curb. A driver holds the door open. Of course.
Ronan helps me in before sliding in beside me. The door closes, shutting out the rest of the world. The leather seats are soft. The interior is silent.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
He looks at me, the city lights sliding across the sharp planes of his face.
“Home,” he says.
And I go with him.
