After Phoenix finished speaking, Lyra’s face went pale with embarrassment.

  But Phoenix couldn’t be bothered. She brushed past her without even a glance.

  Lyra clenched her fists, her chest tightening until it was hard to breathe. She couldn’t stop herself—her voice trembled but sharp as she called out to Phoenix’s retreating back.

  “Believe it or not, Dorian and I are truly in love! I never meant to hurt my sister!”

  Phoenix paused, her lips curling into a cold sneer. She turned her head slightly, casting a razor-sharp look over her shoulder.

  “I don’t give a damn whether you love each other or not.”

  Those words hit like a slap. She stood there frozen, watching Phoenix disappear down the hallway.

  ......

  The street was grimy and broken, the kind of place the city tried to pretend didn’t exist. Trash cluttered every inch—rotting fruit, crumpled tissues, cigarette butts ground into the concrete.

  A boy moved silently through the decay.

  A baseball cap pulled low and a black mask hid his face, revealing only a pair of eyes—dark, sly, beautiful like peach blossoms in spring. But there was something dangerous behind that beauty. Something cold.

  As Atticus passed, a man spat near his shoes. He didn’t react. Just kept walking with quiet precision.

  Ahead, chaos.

  A man flew out the door of a run-down corner shop, crashing onto the pavement. Before he could recover, a group of people swarmed him.

  One of them—flashy makeup, bright red lips, and stilettos—was clearly the boss. She screamed at the man on the ground, rage rolling off her like perfume.

  “Beat his thieving ass! Filthy bastard dares to steal from my store?”

  The others didn’t hesitate. They pummeled him where he lay—bruising, kicking, spitting.

  The man’s face was a mess of blood and swelling, and whatever pastries he’d managed to grab were now crushed, soggy with spit and dirt.

  Still, he laughed, defiant through broken teeth. “What the hell… It’s just a few pieces of bread, you psycho.”

  He tried to crawl up, hand gripping the ground. One leg was crooked, clearly lame. His foot slipped on a fruit peel and—smack—he went down hard… right at Atticus’s feet.

  Face-first, filthy, and furious.

  Jace blinked, dazed, and looked up. He saw sneakers—pristine white and clearly expensive. Then he saw the boy’s eyes.

  Those fucking eyes. Too pretty. Feminine, even. But when he looked closer, he realized—no, this wasn’t some rich girl. This was a boy. Slim, sharp-boned, and staring down at him like he was trash on the sidewalk.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Atticus looked down at Jace, taking in the pastry-foam and saliva clinging to the man's lips, and stepped back, a flicker of revulsion in his eyes.

  Jace, who had been stealing to survive for years, could spot money a mile away. The cut of the clothes, the sleek phone in Atticus's pocket—it screamed wealth.

  And worse, that look of disgust?

  “What the hell are you looking at, you prick?!” Jace spat, his voice rough. “You think you're better than me?”

  He lurched to his feet, a full head taller and ready to pick a fight.

  But Atticus moved aside with a grace that made it look effortless.

  Jace lost it. “Fuck you!”

  He charged again—but stopped cold when Atticus turned to face him fully, his gaze like frost against skin.

  “Don’t touch me,” Atticus said, voice low and icy. “Not with your filthy hands.”

  Jace's body trembled, and he instinctively took a step back. “You…”

  Jace stood there, stunned. And then it hit him—he’d just been played by a damn brat.

  He spat angrily onto the cracked pavement, tempted to run after him and settle the score. But the image of that boy’s designer jacket and the glint of a luxury watch on his wrist stopped him. This wasn’t someone you could just mess with. Jace gritted his teeth and limped away, swallowing the fire in his gut.

  But the world wasn’t done kicking him around yet.

  Just as he stepped into the alley that led to his crumbling apartment, a heavy boot slammed into his side.

  Jace hit the ground with a grunt—and the beatings began all over again.

  Fists, feet, curses raining down. His already bruised face swelled even more, one eye nearly swollen shut.

  “Fucking rat! You think you can dodge me forever?” someone snarled, landing another vicious kick to his ribs. “Owe me money, and you have the balls to hide?”

  “Please—please, brother, have mercy…” Jace curled into himself, arms shielding his head, voice raw as he begged.

  The man in charge—slicked-back hair, too much cologne, a snake of a smile—finally held up a hand.

  “Enough.” His men stepped back, breathing hard, knuckles bloody.

  The man stepped forward, placed his polished shoe on Jace’s already broken hand and pressed down, slowly. Jace howled.

  “When are you going to pay me back?”

  “I’ll get it—I swear I’ll pay, just give me a few more days. Please…” Jace gasped through the pain.

  The man crouched, grabbing a handful of Jace’s hair and jerking his head up. “You think I’m a fucking charity? If I don’t see my money, I’ll take your wife and kid as payment. Got it?”

  Panic shot through Jace’s battered face. “I—I can’t. I can’t find them. Since I got lame, my wife left me. Took my daughter too. I don’t even know where they went…”

  The man—Darkwood—paused, his expression cold. Then, with a dry chuckle, he slapped Jace hard across the face. “So you did have a wife. If I want to find someone, I will.”

  He dropped Jace’s head like trash and stood up, brushing off his coat with casual cruelty.

  Elsewhere, Clarissa hadn’t eaten dinner, and her stomach was starting to protest. Phoenix had gone to the bathroom and still hadn’t returned. Clarissa flagged down a waiter, ordered a small dessert, and sat down to wait—elegant and composed.

  The dessert was unexpectedly good, and she let herself indulge in a few more bites, a soft hum of satisfaction slipping past her lips.

  Then a low voice spoke near her ear. “You didn’t like sweets before.”

  Clarissa froze. She turned her head—and saw Dorian sitting next to her, far too close. Too close. Instinctively, she set down her fork, leaned away, and reestablished the personal space he had invaded.

  “From now on, I do.”

  Her tone was cool, deliberate. The truth was, she had always liked sweets—but Dorian didn’t. So, to please him, she’d said she didn’t. She’d trained herself not to. And she’d starved herself to maintain the figure he liked best.

  Dorian looked at her, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “So, you’re blaming me now?”

  Clarissa rolled her eyes, then smiled with a hint of frost. “No. I just realized we have absolutely nothing in common. Honestly, separating was the wisest thing we’ve ever done.”

  Dorian’s expression darkened. “Clarissa… are you really going to keep your promise?”

  She met his gaze, eyes unshaken, spine straight as a blade. “I already have. I took your money, didn’t I? So I’ll play my role. You can relax, Mr. Dorian—I sincerely wish you and Lyra a beautiful, swift wedding.”