Page 2 of Point of No Return

The living room straight ahead is two stories of stone pillars and velvet chaises centered around a roaring fireplace, but the rest of the house stems from the hallway we take around it. There’s wing after wing of polished marble and extravagance.

A waste, I think as the door to the parlor opens, revealing another fireplace where my father lounges in his usual high-back leather chair before it.

He stands when he sees us, smile tight as he bows to the Don. “General.”

“Charles!” Tyson shakes my father’s hand before they sit in front of the fire. “I’ve seen more of your wife in recent months than you.” A vicious sound tears out of him, and he fumbles through his suit pockets for a kerchief as he coughs.

Reaching for a decanter of alcohol on the table between them, he pours himself a few fingers-full and swallows roughly.

“Why don’t you get dressed?” my mother whispers, appearing at my side by the door. She grimaces at my clothes, her maroon eyes digging into me. Without even lifting a finger, she has me turning to go, but she catches my arm last second. “And Charlotte?” I meet her eyes over my shoulder. “Have the servants burn the clothes you’re wearing. They’refilthy.”

You won’t be needing them anymore, are the words that go unspoken. My past rebellions, no matter how small, end now.

Without so much as a glance back, I leave. But as I race across the courtyard to my room in the west wing, I already know that it will be more than my clothes I’ll be saying goodbye to.

Chapter Two

Charlotte

Ibar the door to my room with a chair, propping its back beneath the golden handle. I know better than to run. It would be pointless. Anyone my mother sends would find me within a matter of days.No,I’m not stupid enough to run… But I know better than to walk into any conversation with Eva Orlova empty-handed.

Several chests are hidden throughout my room- beneath my bed, in the connecting wall to my bathroom, among the books on my shelves. My mother probably knows of all of them, but as clever as she may be, she doesn’t know me quite as well as she thinks she does.

I climb the bookcase beside my bed. Above it, covered in a sheet of dust, is a latch. I pull it. A book at eye-level pops forward, and I remove it in order to fully open the hidden door at the back of the shelf. A safe.

Inside, there are six blades of varying length as well as a wad of cash and some numbers to contact should I ever need to make a quick getaway.

Who knows what’s going to happen when I get down there?

I grab one of the knives, more for comfort than practicality, as well as a thin slip of paper before reshelving the books. There’s an outfit already laid out on the bed for me. Black lace covers the bones of the corset, and I know without even having to try it on that the fit will be impeccable. Hate is hot in my gut. It isn’t the dress itself I hate as much as what it’s for. What’s about to happen.

“I think my son’s future bride can call me Tyson.”

I’m used to being prettied up and paraded around. Most of my adult life has been about mindless parties and drinking for sport. That’s what money gets you in a place like Westos. My parents care about nothing more than making a better name for themselves.

We didn’t come from money. Our kind came from nothing. Whatever little is left of our home in Prevya is evidence of that. My mother hasn’t let me forget. No matter how many parties we attend, no matter what false niceties people now throw our way.

Leaving Prevya changed a lot of things, but there’s one thing that money can never buy: Acceptance. And my kind will never truly be accepted here.

As I step into the buttery fabric of the dress, I know the silhouette is meant to reveal the ample line of my chest and the slim column of my neck. More, it’s meant to draw any wandering eyes away from the black ink swirling over my right shoulder down my left arm.

“If you have to be seen, it’s better to be remembered for a pretty smile.”My mother’s voice is a stern reminder in my head.

Or admirable assets.

She knew what she was doing when she chose it. The full sleeves of the dress allow me to hide the blade along the line of my wrist, and I slip the sliver of paper up the other. Both are close enough to be accessible but still discrete.

It doesn’t take long to brush a fresh coat of makeup over my face and secure my hair back with a couple of long pins. One look in my armoire mirror and I know my mother will be pleased. I look enticing- but I still have that air of danger about me. Perhaps it’s exactly the look I need tonight.

Both the General and my father are still seated near the fire when I come back, though my mother has taken her place at the head of the table behind them. Dessert has already been served, and she shovels the food around her plate lazily.

I watch, still unseen, as she brings a glass of wine to her lips. They’re painted a dark plum- her signature color. The color of midnight, the color of bruises. She smiles at something the men are saying, and I don’t bother hiding my anger as I enter. While I mastered the art of hiding my emotions a long time ago, tonight I simply don’t care.

Tyson talks around a plate of my mother’s famous dessert, “We’ll announce their engagement at the Midsummers Gala this weekend. That will make it a three-month engagement.”

“I thought we agreed on a month, Tyson.” My mother swirls her wine around her glass, irritation evident in every movement. I silently take my seat as I watch the scene unfold. She clears her throat, eyes sliding toward him. “They were to be married before summer’s end.”

Tyson coughs into a hand as he catches my eye, grinning as his stare lands on my cleavage. I don’t smile back.

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