CHAPTER SIX: PRETTY LIES, SHARP TONGUES

Valentine

"Keira, we're gonna be late!" I smoothed the pleats of my wine-colored A-line skirt and tucked in my white blouse. The fabric clung to my waist just right—elegant, clean, almost too pristine for the chaos that was sure to follow.

From the other side of the room, Keira popped her head out of the bathroom, her wet hair sticking to her cheekbones. "Almost done! Ugh, this eyeliner is trying to ruin my life."

I laughed, slipping into nude sandals and finger-combing my hair, still damp from my shower. "Says the mafia princess fighting a war with a kajal stick."

Keira emerged in an oversized tee and black biker shorts, tying her hair into a high ponytail. "Hey, even mafia blood needs to look hot for the first day at Imperial." She winked and grabbed her leather satchel. "Ready to make some noise?"

"Always."

The cafeteria buzzed—first years and legacies alike flooding the marble-floored room. Students in tailored blazers and designer sneakers lounged around, laughing too loudly, sipping overpriced coffee, and trying a little too hard to look effortless.

Keira and I slid into line near the espresso machine. I could feel eyes on us—not surprising. Danbury girls always made a scene, even when they weren't trying to.

"Do you feel like we're being watched?" I muttered, glancing over my shoulder.

"Watched?" Keira followed my gaze with a smirk. "Sweetheart, we're the Danburys. They're just waiting for the scandal."

I rolled my eyes. "Nice. Super reassuring."

Suddenly, the scent of something dark and citrusy wrapped around me—familiar and unwelcome. I turned slowly, and there he was.

Aiden Sterling.

Leaning against a marble pillar, blazer draped over his shoulder, lips slightly parted in what could only be described as the devil's version of a smirk. His eyes—those damn obsidian eyes—locked onto mine like a predator finally spotting his prey.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite bookstore brawler," he drawled, pushing off the pillar and striding over, each step lazy but lethal.

My throat tightened, pulse stuttering. "Sterling," I muttered, masking the anxiety twisting in my gut.

"Valentine," he said my name like it was dipped in venom and velvet. "You changed your hair. I like it wet."

My jaw clenched. "And you're still disgusting."

He stepped into my space, enough that I had to tilt my head to meet his gaze.

"You slapped me," he said, his voice low and mocking. "Twice, if we're keeping score."

"I should've aimed lower," I snapped.

"I'm starting to think you like hitting me. Foreplay?" His mouth curved. "I do bruise beautifully, if you haven't noticed."

Before I could respond, a voice slithered into the space between us.

"Well, well. If it isn't Sterling collecting restraining orders again."

Killian Voss.

He moved like he owned the ground under him—black turtleneck, cuffed trousers, and a permanent smirk that made women lean in and men lean back. His pale grey eyes flicked between us before settling on Keira.

He leaned in, voice a velvet blade. "Didn't think Chicago would let you go that easy, Armanetti."

Keira froze.

It was a blink, no more—but I saw it. A flicker. Like a blade catching moonlight.

Her fingers curled tighter around her coffee cup. "I don't use that name."

"I know," Killian said, voice lazy but sharp beneath the silk. "But you flinched. So it still means something."

Aiden gave a low whistle. "Full surname drop, huh? We doing trauma hour this early?"

Killian didn't break eye contact with Keira. "Just catching up with old friends."

Aiden grinned. "You don't have friends."

"I have you," Killian said dryly. "Barely."

"That's not friendship," Aiden smirked. "That's mutual blackmail."

They bumped fists—mockingly casual, but it didn't hide the heat underneath. There was history between them. Dangerous, sharp-edged history.

"You two done measuring dick sizes?" Keira asked coolly, eyes narrowed.

Killian's gaze dropped to her lips. "Was just admiring the sharp tongue. Forgot how it cut."

Keira stepped forward, chin raised. "Then let me refresh your memory. If you use my real name again, I'll carve yours into your ribcage."

Killian smiled like she'd just offered him a second date.

"I missed you, Armanetti."

She turned away before she could say something that would cost us a body count.

Meanwhile, Aiden leaned into me again. Too close. Always too close.

"You like watching, don't you?" he murmured, voice low and heat-laced.

I stepped back. "You're disgusting."

"But you haven't stopped looking," he said, eyes sliding to my lips. "I could make you forget your own name, Valentine."

I met his gaze head-on. "No thanks. I worked hard to remember it."

Later that evening, once the classes were over, 

Keira adjusted her satchel as we walked to the parking lot, the autumn wind tugging at her ponytail. Her eyes scanned the campus, always alert, always calculating.

"I've got an errand to run," she said casually, like she was going grocery shopping and not about to vanish into something laced with danger.

I arched a brow. "Outfit business?"

She smirked. "You know the drill."

I did. I'd known it since we were thirteen and she first told me that her family didn't deal in stocks or surgery—they dealt in shadows.

"You want backup?"

Her smile was tight. "Not for this one. Go home. Rest. Maybe don't get into another verbal fistfight with Ashbourne."

"No promises."

She winked and disappeared into the line of glossy black university cars, her silhouette swallowed by tinted glass and secrets I didn't ask about.

The estate was quiet when I returned, too quiet. I passed the ornate mirror in the hallway and barely glanced at my reflection. I didn't want to see the version of myself I was when she wasn't around.

Slipping into my room, I tossed my satchel on the floor and pulled out my laptop. I hadn't done this in a while—not since the last nightmare.

"Fire in Birmingham, 2015," I typed.

The search results loaded—scattered headlines, most of them vague. Gas leak suspected, estate destroyed, one survivor pulled from wreckage—identity withheld. The articles were cold. Detached. A few photos showed the charred remains of a once-grand mansion.

I stared at them, eyes dry but burning. My family had lived there. My life had started there.

I clicked open a file I'd hidden deep within my system. A scanned photo.

Three figures stood outside the Danbury-Lancaster estate. A tall man with golden-brown hair. A woman with a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, laughing. A little girl in between them grinning with her front teeth missing.

And behind is the garden.

Looking like a sanctuary.

A memory from nowhere hit like a wave I didn't see coming.

The roses were in bloom. I ran barefoot on the trimmed grass, arms flailing, my white dress covered in specks of dirt and grass.

"Val! He's coming your way!" my mother shouted between laughs.

I turned and squealed as our golden retriever, Archibald, bolted toward me with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging like a windmill. He tackled me to the ground in a blur of fur and joy, licking my face until I couldn't breathe from laughter.

My father scooped me up. "That's what you get for hiding biscuits in your pocket, little Lancaster."

I hugged his neck tightly. "I didn't hide them! I was saving them."

"Always the strategist," he chuckled.

I'd never felt safer. I'd never felt more loved.

The scent of burning wood twisted in my nose.

Except—it wasn't the past.

Bang.

A loud, shattering crash snapped me out of the memory.

I bolted upright, my laptop tumbling off the bed.

"Keira?" I shouted, already running down the corridor.

The scent hit me first.

Blood. Iron. Raw.

Another door banged open down the hall. I sprinted toward it, heart in my throat, and pushed it open—

And stopped cold.

Keira was slumped on the floor, her shirt soaked in red. Blood poured from a stab wound in her side, her skin pale, her breaths short.

And crouched beside her—steady, calm, shirt stained with crimson—was Killian Voss.

He didn't look surprised to see me. "Get towels," he said sharply. "And ice. Now."

I dropped to my knees, grabbing Keira's hand. "Keira. Oh my god. What—what happened?"

She coughed, lips parting. "They found me."

"Who?" I demanded.

Her eyes fluttered, but she wasn't answering. Her skin was too cold. Her hand was trembling.

I turned to Killian. "What the hell is going on?!"

His jaw clenched. "She didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he looked back down at Keira, his voice low but firm. "Stay with me, Armanetti."

Her fingers twitched in response, like the name was a lifeline—or a ghost.

And suddenly, the walls I thought I understood began to fracture.