"Calyx!"
Someone shouted his name, sharp and clear, slicing through the crowd's low hum like a knife through silk. The sound jolted me, my pulse hitching as every head in the room turned toward the source. My breath caught in my throat as I followed their gaze.
There he was.
Calyx stood tall, poised in the way only someone like him could be—unshaken, untouchable. His suit, pristine and tailored to perfection, only amplified his effortless allure. The kind of presence that commanded attention without asking for it. But he wasn't alone.
Jillian clung to his arm like she was made to fit there. Her crimson dress—bold, deliberate—hugged every curve with a precision that left nothing to the imagination. The plunging neckline, the effortless way she laughed, the coy tilt of her head—it was all so perfectly executed, like a scene in a script she had rehearsed a thousand times.
The shift in the room was palpable. Conversations hushed, eyes darted, the unspoken weight of assumption settling in the air like a thick fog. They weren't just looking. They were deciding.
Jillian was Calyx's wife.
The words weren't spoken, but they didn't need to be. I felt them press against my skin, heavier than the stares that slowly began to turn in my direction.
I swallowed, but it didn't make breathing any easier. My nails bit into my palms as I clenched my fists, a sharp, grounding reminder that I was still here. That I couldn't—wouldn't—fall apart. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.
Not now.
A steady warmth pressed against my shoulder—a hand, firm yet careful. Steven.
"You're still our sister, Severa. Remember that," he murmured, his voice low but unwavering. "But we don't want you to see this weakness of yours."
My breath shuddered, but I didn't move. His grip tightened slightly, anchoring me.
"I know what happened to you," he continued, his tone steady. "I know why this marriage needs to happen. But I want you to find the truth on your own. You weren't named Nine just to give up this easily."
His words struck something deep within me, cracking through the rising haze of helplessness.
Slowly, I turned to face him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something between mischief and understanding, a quiet promise that he wasn't just saying this to pacify me.
"I'll just sit here and watch you do your thing," he added, leaning back like he had all the time in the world.
I exhaled, forcing my focus back to the chaos unfolding ahead. Calyx and Jillian were already surrounded, flashes from the cameras illuminating their picture-perfect moment—one that should have never existed.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I forced myself to let go. Of the whispering voices. Of the assumptions. Of the slow, gnawing ache threatening to break me apart. None of it would help me now. If I was going to fight for what was mine, if I was going to unravel the truth behind this marriage, I couldn't afford to be reckless.
It was ironic, really. It took two Trexlers to make me see the real shape of my life—one through betrayal, the other through an oddly placed loyalty. And despite their support, I still hated them. Hated how they disrupted the solitude I had built for myself.
And yet…
A part of me couldn't deny that their presence, their backing, felt oddly reassuring.
Weird.
But right now, I'd take what I could get.
"So, Calyx, are you finally giving us peace of mind about your relationship status with Ms. Jillian Smith?"
The question rang out, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the lingering murmur of the room. The reporter made sure every single person heard it. Conversations stalled, breaths hitched, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of anticipation thickening the air.
I rose to my feet.
No hesitation. No wavering.
My chin lifted, my shoulders squared, and with deliberate steps, I moved toward Calyx.
The shift in the atmosphere was immediate. Eyes snapped toward me, curiosity flickering like sparks igniting dry leaves. Whispers curled around the edges of the silence, intrigue woven into every syllable. Even Calyx and Jillian turned, their attention now entirely on me.
Jillian's polished smile faltered—just for a second. A fleeting crack in her perfectly constructed façade before her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes sharpening like glass catching the light.
I smirked.
She didn't like this.
She didn't like seeing me walk with purpose, with poise, like I belonged. Like I wasn't just a forgotten shadow lurking in the background.
The murmurs swelled, rippling through the crowd, slipping past clenched lips and barely-contained awe.
"She looks stunning."
"Like royalty."
"That pixie-cut girl in the gold dress…"
"Absolutely elegant."
My smirk deepened.
Better.
Better than a girl in a red dress.
As I neared their location, a male reporter suddenly stepped in front of me, halting my steps with a practiced ease that reeked of experience. His gaze swept over me—not with admiration, but with something unspoken, something unwelcome. It lingered just a second too long before he masked it with a veneer of professionalism.
Then, without missing a beat, he fired his question.
"I saw you a couple of weeks ago with Mr. Calyxander Lockhorst at the Renaissance Hotel, and sources say he introduced you to his friends as his wife. What can you say about the rumors spreading across the country that Jillian Smith is, in fact, Mr. Lockhorst's wife?"
A calculated question. Simple, yet laced with quiet danger.
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I let the words hang, heavy in the air, weaving their way through the growing silence. My gaze flickered toward Jillian.
She had gone deathly pale.
For the briefest of moments, I saw it—the cracks in her carefully curated façade, the flicker of panic in her eyes, raw and unguarded. But she was quick, well-trained. She forced her expression back into something smooth, something distant, as if the question was nothing more than an insignificant whisper.
But I saw the way her fingers curled, the way her breath caught ever so slightly before she exhaled.
And then—someone approached her.
An older woman, exuding quiet authority, the kind that didn't need words to command attention. She moved with purpose, with familiarity, stepping into Jillian's space like she belonged.
Jillian straightened at her presence.
My pulse ticked up.
Familiar. Too familiar.
My fingers twitched at my side.
And just like that, the game shifted again.
Calyx's eyes met mine, searching—silently pleading, perhaps. There was something raw in the way he looked at me, something unspoken lingering in the space between us. But I ignored it.
Instead, I turned my attention back to the woman just as she spoke.
"Is that true, Jillian? Calyx?" Her voice carried authority, laced with confusion. "What is happening?"
Then, with no hesitation, she turned to me. Her gaze swept over me from head to toe, slow and deliberate, her scrutiny heavy with judgment.
"I saw you flirting with the Trexlers," she accused, her tone sharp, cutting through the thick silence. "What do you want, hija? Are you trying to destroy someone's marriage?"
A murmur rippled through the crowd, the weight of dozens of stares pressing against my skin. The moment stretched, anticipation crackling in the air.
For a moment, I was stunned.
Then—
I laughed.
The sound rang through the room, shattering the tense quiet like glass breaking against marble. It was rich, unexpected—a defiant melody in a space where I was expected to shrink.
People stared, their disbelief almost tangible. After all, who would dare laugh after being accused—so publicly—of being a flirt? A homewrecker?
The woman's brow arched higher, her disappointment deepening into something colder. But I simply shook my head, my amusement fading into something sharper, something unyielding.
"Why would I flirt with my own brother, Madame?" I said, my voice calm but firm, watching as the first flicker of confusion danced across her features.
I let the weight of my words sink in before delivering the final blow.
"Of course, nobody knows that the Trexlers have an heiress," I continued, my tone laced with quiet confidence. "And I have no interest in destroying my own marriage with Calyx. Why would I do that?"
Then, with deliberate ease, I raised my right hand, letting the light catch on the unmistakable symbol of my claim—my wedding ring.
A sharp inhale. A shift in the air.
The room grew still.
The game had just changed.
With steady, deliberate steps, I closed the distance between us. Then, without hesitation, I removed Jillian's hand from my husband's arm.
She stiffened, her mouth parting—ready to protest—but I merely shook my head, a silent warning. Not here. Not now.
The press was watching. The cameras were rolling.
And I wasn't about to let her steal this moment.
Summoning the part of me I had long kept buried, I plastered on my sweetest, most saccharine smile and gracefully slid my hand around Calyx's arm.
"I don't like the idea that you didn't invite me to this party, my dear husband," I whispered, my tone soft, teasing—yet undeniably possessive.
Calyx remained still.
Then—
"So, Mr. Lockhorst, you married a Trexler?"
The voice was familiar, sharp with curiosity.
I tilted my head up, watching Calyx, waiting.
His silence stretched, tension thickening by the second. He wasn't answering.
My heart pounded.
The air around us felt suffocating. Say it.
I knew he couldn't deny me anymore. I knew that.
But then—
"No!"
The word sliced through the room like a dagger.
A collective inhale. A hush fell over the crowd.
Every gaze turned.
Jillian.
Her voice rang out—desperate, defiant.
She had just interrupted Calyx.
And now, all eyes were on her.
She had just made a fatal mistake.
"Calyx is in love with me! He's not supposed to marry her!"
I rolled my eyes. Dios mío, how pathetic.
Jillian's voice trembled, raw with desperation. But I refused to let her get under my skin. I exhaled slowly, deciding to let her dig her own grave. If she wanted to make a fool of herself, who was I to stop her?
But then—
"Calyx just married her because of their family debt! And Calyx is the only one who can save her!"
My breath hitched.
The room tilted.
A cold weight settled in my chest.
What?
My forehead creased as I tried to make sense of her words. Family debt?
"Jillian! Stop it!"
Calyx's voice snapped through the tension, rough, urgent. His grip on me loosened as he rushed toward her.
But Jillian wasn't done.
"Why? Why do I need to stop? You were forced to marry her, and you just pretend to accept it. But I know you—"
Calyx cut her off. His jaw clenched, eyes burning as he grabbed her arm, yanking her away from the crowd before she could say anything else.
And just like that—
I was left standing there.
Alone.
In front of a sea of faces, cameras flashing, whispers swirling like a storm around me.
I felt stripped bare. My confidence cracked at the edges.
I had been ready for a fight. Prepared to battle with poise and grace.
But Jillian—she had blindsided me. Every word out of her mouth had landed like a sucker punch.
And now, I couldn't tell if I was still playing the game—
Or if I had already lost.
I left the grand ballroom after that humiliating scene.
I didn't even know how I managed to slip through the sea of faces, the flashing cameras, the whispers slicing through the air like knives.
All I knew was that I needed to get out.
Somehow, I found myself at the back of the hotel.
"Aren't you gonna follow them?"
Dos's voice cut through the suffocating silence.
I turned.
He was leaning against the wall, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. His dark, unreadable eyes locked onto mine.
"You're not like this, Nine." His voice was calm. Too calm. "Is this what love does to you? Makes you weak? Hopeless?"
I snapped.
"You don't know shit, Dos! So shut the fuck up!"
Rage surged inside me, hot and uncontrollable. Before I could stop myself, I lunged.
My fist connected with the right side of his face.
A sharp, satisfying crack echoed in the alley.
Blood.
Dos wiped the crimson from his mouth with the back of his hand, but his eyes—those calculating, ruthless eyes—never left mine.
And then—
He smirked.
"You don't know shit either, Nine."
His voice was taunting, laced with something colder. Something that made my breath hitch.
Damn him.
I was already hurting. Already unraveling.
But Dos—he had a way of clawing at wounds I didn't even know I had.
"Do you think I'd waste my time helping you if you were this clueless?"
I glared, but the shift was already there—the creeping dread settling deep in my bones.
Dos fixed his collar, his smirk fading into something unreadable.
And then, he leaned in.
Low. Dangerous. A whisper that felt like a warning.
"Go back to being Nine."
My stomach twisted.
"And you'll understand why your marriage is in deep shit."