Maria found the Doctor near the venue's entrance, just beyond the sweep of the gala lights. He ended his call with a sharp jab of his thumb and turned to her, a fresh trickle of blood leaking from one nostril.
"I told you," he ground out, dabbing at the blood with the back of his hand, "kidnapping the girl was not the play. And you did it anyway."
He was a large man, the kind whose silence alone made people cower, and right now his voice was a leashed snarl. Maria felt her stomach clench, but she lifted her chin.
"What happened to you?" she asked, eyeing the blood.
Before he could answer, a microphone screeched to life inside the main hall. They both turned. Lucian was back on the stage, commanding the room with an ease that bordered on insolence. The earlier tension was gone from his shoulders; he looked perfectly, dangerously calm.
"Something urgent came up, but I see the poll results are as clear to everyone," Lucian said, the microphone carrying his voice out over the thinning crowd. "I'm offering a paid internship to Miss Set … and as for Adrian, I think I left a lollipop back in my car."
A ripple of confused laughter spread through the room. Adrian, already guiding Star towards the exit and his waiting Lamborghini, allowed himself a small, humorless smirk.
Lucian wrapped up the final remarks, flawless and polished, his appreciation brief. People began to filter out into the night.
When the last guest had gone and the yacht was quiet, Lucian remained. Star had left with Adrian; there was no reason to rush home. He moved through the opulent rooms, closing things down, until he stepped into the lounge and found Bonita struggling to stand. She caught her heel in the hem of her dress and pitched forward, saved only by Lucian's reflexes.
"Oh, hey … it's my brother!" The words slid out of her mouth, thick and slow.
Lucian's jaw tightened. "I'm not your brother."
He let her drop onto the nearest sofa with no ceremony. "Safe, can you make some coffee?"
Bonita tilted her head, narrowing her eyes into glassy slits. "You're Mr. Throne … I remember that sexy silver suit." She bit her lower lip, shameless. "Why didn't you go home?"
Lucian began removing his jacket, then his tie, his movements brisk and businesslike.
"Are you going to undress in front of me? I'd love to see just how sexy you are naked."
Every muscle in Lucian's body locked. For a moment, disgust and disbelief warred on his face, and he could feel his own skin crawl.
Bonita rose from the sofa, unsteady but determined, and reached for his shirt collar. Lucian caught her wrists mid-air, firm but not cruel, and removed her hands as if they were covered in something foul.
She stared at him, the rejection cutting through the fog of alcohol. No one rejected Bonita. Men in Crestfall would trade their fortunes for a single grasping hand from her.
"Do you want me to get sober first …?" she slurred, her voice dropping into a wounded lilt.
"Safe!" Lucian called, striding past her into the kitchen as if she'd ceased to exist. Loose and stupid. Is this how the Starks behave?
Bonita hissed, flopping back onto the sofa in a huff. A moment later, Safe emerged with a steaming mug of coffee, dressed now in a simple nightshirt. The yacht was fully stocked, and he moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had long ago learned to make himself useful in other people's storms.
Bonita looked up at him, her expression shifting from irritation to something blank, then deeply confused. She whispered one broken word.
"Dad?"
Morning came soft and orange through the windows of the Stark estate. Star woke in a room adjacent to Adrian's, a guest space she had claimed for herself the night before. She needed distance—desperately. The sting of Doctor's blow to her head still throbbed, but worse was the hollow grief lodged beneath her ribs.
She stretched, her joints cracking, and padded into the bathroom. Everything was new, untouched: toothbrush, towels, soaps. She freshened up and pulled on the spare clothes Adrian had retrieved from storage—sweatpants, a simple top, running shoes.
Grabbing her earbuds, she slipped out of the mansion and into the vast estate. Music hummed in her ears as her feet found a steady rhythm, but her mind swirled with accusations. She had promised to avenge her mother. She'd promised to study hard and build her a house. Every time she scraped together a little momentum, the world shoved her back down. Marriage wasn't on her bingo card this year. Neither was a pregnancy.
An ache bloomed low in her belly, sharp and insistent. She slowed to a walk, then pressed a hand over the cramp, breathing through it. Maybe running wasn't wise. She found a bench and sat, the sunrise stretching its golden fingers across the lawn. The pain intensified; she clutched her stomach, teeth clenched.
"Oh, my god … is that you?"
Star didn't need to look. She knew that voice like a papercut.
"I should have taken my vitamins," she muttered, eyes watering slightly, ignoring Tiffany, who settled herself on the opposite end of the bench as if she owned it.
"What are you even doing here? Adrian hasn't dropped you yet?" Tiffany wore a mocking smile, taking in Star's sickly pallor with obvious delight.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"Me?" Tiffany laughed with a lifted eyebrow, smooth and mean. "This is my home. My father's estate connects with the Starks'. I have more right to be here than you ever will. You're just—"
"A rebound? Try something new. My ears hurt from hearing that every time I see you." Star cut her off, voice flat.
Tiffany was dressed in a matching sports bra and shorts, a water bottle in hand, sweat still glistening on her collarbone. She'd clearly been running for a long while.
Star stood, ready to walk away, but Tiffany caught her by the arm.
"You and I both know you only won Best Dressed and the gala because you're probably screwing Lucian," Tiffany spat, her voice venomous and low.
Star looked at her—the infuriating scent of Tiffany's expensive perfume, the perfect sneer—and her stomach revolted. Before she could form a retort, she doubled over and vomited down the front of Tiffany's designer workout set.
Tiffany's eyes widened to the point of popping. Pure, undiluted horror twisted her face. "You bitch!"
Star straightened, equally horrified, her hand flying to her mouth. "I am so sorry! I didn't— I'm so, so sorry!" Her voice cracked with genuine distress, but Tiffany was already shrieking, arms held away from her body, covered in someone else's sick. Without another word, she fled towards her own house, legs pumping, a high-pitched wail of disgust trailing behind her.
Star groaned and pressed her palm to her forehead. She would pay for that later. For now, all she could do was walk back.
Adrian emerged from the gym beside the main house, still wearing his workout gear, a towel slung around his neck. He pushed through the doors into the dining room, where the family was already assembled around the breakfast table.
Maria lit up the moment she saw him. "Son, I'm so proud of you. The AUDO partnership with Throne Enterprise—that's a triumph!"
Christine let out a quiet hiss, not even bothering to hide her disdain as she speared a piece of fruit with her fork.
"Yeah," Adrian said flatly, pulling out a chair and signaling for his breakfast. "I'm thinking of turning the partnership down."
Maria's smile faltered.
"Why, child? Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"
Saint Stark leaned forward before Adrian could speak. He looked slightly better this morning, but the cough that had plagued him for over two weeks hadn't subsided. Sometimes blood speckled his handkerchief. "Son, this is the kind of deal men build legacies on. Why walk away now?"
Adrian drew a long breath, held it for a beat, then released it. "Yes, it's just … I'm still considering it."
Christine's eyes, sharp and knowing, slid to him. "Is it because of Star? He's her friend."
"No." Adrian's brow creased. "Speaking of her, where is she?"
Before anyone could answer, Maria's phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, and a flicker of confusion crossed her face. She silenced it.
It rang again.
And again. And again.
Christine took a slow, deliberate bite of her fruit, her grin widening with each ring. "Mind you pick that."
Maria's jaw tightened. She ignored the bait and turned to her mother-in-law with sudden, pointed curiosity. "Mother, why weren't you at the gala last night?"
Christine's fork paused mid-air. Just for a second. Then she was back to normal, her expression a smooth mask of amusement. But Maria had seen it—the brief falter. Christine, who never missed a chance to parade her fashion even in old age, had been fully dressed and ready to go. And then she simply hadn't?
"I got bored," Christine said lightly, waving a dismissive hand. "The gala was for young business hotshots. I didn't fit in."
Her grin remained fixed, mocking, as Maria's phone continued to vibrate insistently against the tablecloth, an unanswered scream.
Meanwhile, Star walked back to the main house, her stomach still churning. Just before reaching the entrance, she spotted a few servants slipping into the large storage building. Her hunger, sharp and sudden, tugged her in that direction. Maybe there was a piece of fruit. Something. Anything.
Inside, the storage room was enormous—crates and bushels of vegetables in neat rows, like a market without customers. Star scanned the offerings and frowned. All of it required preparation. Nothing she could eat immediately.
A kind-faced older servant approached her. "Can I help you, ma'am?"
"I'm in my first trimester," Star admitted, her voice smaller than she intended, "and the sickness is … it's intense. I'm hungry, but the nausea—"
"I can have Paul take you to the ninth floor, ma'am. They'll prepare something gentle for you."
"No, no. I'll just grab my vitamins. I'm sorry." Star turned to leave, flustered, and her foot caught. She pitched forward, landing hard in a basket of green peppers.
A young man dropped a crate of potatoes and rushed to her aid. "Are you alright, ma'am?"
"Yes—yes, I'm fine." But as she stood, her shoe refused to move. A thin gold thread was tangled in her shoelace, snaking from beneath the vegetable rack. It looked deliberate. Like one of Tiffany's traps.
A servant bent down to untie the knot. It was taking too long. Star's legs ached, so she sat on an overturned crate. As she shifted, the rack groaned and tilted. Workers lunged to catch it before it crushed her. Scrambling back, Star tugged her foot, and a massive sheet of crimson fabric slithered out from under the rack, one of its gold-threaded tassels still wrapped around her lace.
She stared. The fabric was regal, heavy, ancient. It seemed to hum with a warmth that traveled up her fingers before she even touched it.
The servants went very still. Their faces lost their helpful concern, replaced by something else—fear, or reverence. Like children caught touching the mean girl's most prized possession.
"What? It's just a piece of fabric." Star scoffed, finally slipping her shoe off. She tried to untie the knot, but the gold thread held fast, impossibly strong.
So she lifted the fabric.
The moment her palms pressed against the heavy crimson velvet, the knot fell away as if it had never existed. Star barely noticed. The fabric pooled over her arms, intricate gold embroidery catching the light, and something old and familiar curled in her chest. It smelled of cedar and dust and a perfume she couldn't name. It felt like grief and warmth wrapped in one. And suddenly the pain in her stomach vanished like it hadn't been there.
"That's the Stark Mantle," the older servant whispered, her brow creased.
Star looked up, confused and suddenly hungry for answers. "A what?"