Page 1 of Crown of Blood

Chapter One

Bianca

TheLondonUndergroundsmellslike boiled socks and broken dreams.

I take the stairs two at a time because the escalator’s broken again, and I’m too tired to pretend patience tonight. My feet are raw inside cheap flats, blisters blooming in places no shoe should rub. My uniform’s sticking to the backs of my thighs, still damp from ten hours of cleaning up other people’s mess—stray hair in hotel sinks, damp towels that smell like cologne and entitlement, and one particularly charming American who called me “sweetheart” while asking if I’d join him in the shower.

I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no, either.

I just smiled like I always do and added his room to the list of shit I won’t remember by morning.

A train shrieks past as it slows to a halt in the tube, the wind slapping the damp strands of hair against my face. I don’t fix them. What’s the point? Marcus won’t care what I look like anyway. He doesn’t even notice when I wear mascara anymore. Doesn’t kiss me when I get home. Just mutes the TV, if I’m lucky, and asks if I remembered to buy oat milk despite the fact I've told my fiancé that I'm not buying that shit because it's twice the price of normal milk.

I press into the carriage and there's standing room only. Elbows and briefcases, a fucking Tuesday-night special.

Shifting to create even a hint of space for myself, a damp backpack digs into my spine as the doors close.

The train starts to move and I catch a glimpse of myself through the windows that are scratched so badly my reflection looks like it’s been clawed at.

Eyes hollow. Lip cracked. That stain on my collar hasn’t come out, no matter how hard I scrub.

I almost forgot it was there.

Just like Marcus forgot how to say I love you without checking his phone halfway through.

By the time I climb the stairs to our building, the rain is less a drizzle and more a vertical slap. My tights are soaked. One heel on my shoe has started to peel, clicking off-kilter with every step like a metronome for failure.

I smell like bleach, sweat, and faint lemon-scented lies as I juggle the Tesco bag against my hip and dig for my keys. Of course the lock sticks. It always does—like the door’s warning me not to go in.

And tonight, maybe I should have listened.

The second the door creaks open, I smell it.

Something warm… musky… Sharp around the edges.

Sex.

The bag starts to slip down my shoulder as I freeze, the wine bottle clinking against the counter as I set it down so softly it doesn't make a sound.

I move down the hallway, but glance over my shoulder to the front door. No extra coat on the hook. No shoes by the door that aren’t mine or Marcus'.

I push forward, each step heavier than the last. The hallway stretches like a tunnel, dark at the edges where the afternoon light can't reach. My fingers trail along the wall—touching, testing, like I'm making sure what's real.

The living room door is cracked. Just enough.

Just enough to ruin me.

Because I see them.

Marcus. Myfiancé.

The man who proposed with a ring that turned my finger green. The man who used to kiss my thighs likeIwas sacred. The man who used to beg me to come before him—because he said watching me fall apart was his favorite thing in the world.

Now he’s behind my best friend. Madeline.

Her head is thrown back, black hair stuck to her forehead, lips parted in the kind of moan I haven’t heard in our bedroom in months. Her face is slack with pleasure, eyes fluttered shut, and shelaughs—a little breathy giggle that shakes her shoulders as she takes him like he belongs right there, deep inside her.

Marcus’s mouth is open, his jaw clenched. Tears sting my eyes, but I fight them back and focus on his expression.

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