Page 129 of Shattered By Grace

“Miss Victoria,” he said with a polite nod. “Mr. Locke asked me to deliver this to you.”

She hesitated for only a second before taking the items from his hands. The moment her fingers brushed the velvet box, a shiver ran down her spine.

"He said no response was necessary," the man added. "Just that you’d understand."

Before she could say anything, he gave a small bow and stepped back. "Mr. Locke has also provided the car. We’ll be waiting whenever you’re ready."

Victoria shut the door and locked it, because Tristan would expect nothing less, before setting the rose on the table and opening the box. Inside, nestled in silk, was a delicate black lace masquerade mask. A folded card rested beside it.

With careful fingers, she picked it up and unfolded it. Tristan’s familiar scrawl greeted her:

Her breath caught. Simple, yet it stole the air from her lungs.

Fingertips traced the mask, her heart hammering as she whispered, “Tristan.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

As the car pulled up to the estate, Victoria found herself momentarily breathless. The mansion loomed above the landscape, its old-world elegance dripping in decadence. Twisting ivy clung to the stone façade, wrapping around the grand columns like nature itself was trying to reclaim the estate. Golden light spilled from massive arched windows, casting elongated shadows across the manicured gardens. Fountains bubbled softly in the distance, their sound barely audible over the quiet hum of luxury cars pulling into the drive. Everything about this place whispered wealth, power, and the kind of secrets that never saw the light of day.

The air carried a crisp edge, the scent of roses mingling with aged whiskey and expensive cigars, remnants of the past lingering in the bones of the estate. Guests in elegant gowns and perfectly tailored suits moved toward the entrance, masks concealing their identities, adding an edge of intrigue. Lace, velvet, and shimmering fabrics swept across the stone steps, conversations hushed, laughter spilling in soft, indulgent waves.

Inside the car, Victoria exhaled slowly, shifting slightly in her seat before discreetly adjusting her shapewear.

For something designed to sculpt perfection, it sure felt like it was trying to crush the life out of me.

If this thing rolled down mid-evening, she’d have two choices. Make a mad dash to the bathroom or let the compression war win.

Shaking off the thought, she smoothed a hand over her gown, forcing composure to the surface. But as soon as she lifted her gaze, her stomach tightened for an entirely different reason.

The errand boy stepped forward, dutifully opening her door, his hand outstretched to help her. He was young, barely out of his teens, his crisp black suit slightly too big for his lanky frame. But it wasn’t his nervous energy that caught her attention, it was the way his eyes darted past her, widening slightly before he quickly looked down.

A slow, deliberate heat crawling up her spine, seeped beneath her skin.

She didn’t need to look to know.

Tristan was near.

Her fingers barely brushed against the errand boy’s hand when a shadow eclipsed the space beside the car. The poor guy stiffened, swallowing hard as he took a cautious step back. Victoria finally lifted her gaze.

Oh, hot damn.

At the top of the grand staircase, Tristan stood like he owned the night itself. The glow from the chandeliers bathed him in gold, casting deep shadows across the sharp angles of his face. His suit was tailored to perfection, dark and commanding, the black mask obscuring part of his features only making him more dangerous and devastating. Between his fingers, he twisted a single red rose.

But it was the way he watched her that set her skin ablaze. Slow. Intentional. Like he was already peeling her apart, layer by layer, with nothing but a look.

Tristan descended the staircase, each step unhurried, controlled.

The errand boy cleared his throat, stepping aside with a rushed bow. “M-Mr. Locke,” he stammered before disappearing as if his life depended on it.

Tristan didn’t spare him a glance. His attention, razor-sharp and unwavering, was locked on her.

His voice, smooth as sin. “Come to me, love.”

Victoria swallowed, fire curling beneath her skin. She should say something, anything, but words felt useless in the face of him.

He reached for her hand, his touch warm and possessive. His thumb brushed over her pulse point as he lifted her fingers to his lips. He didn’t just kiss her hand, he lingered, his breath a wicked promise against her skin.

Heat licked down her spine, pooling deep in her stomach.

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