“You say that as if you have the power to stop it,” Mr. Stone fires back.

“That’s enough.” Liam’s father shifts in his chair, the light above casting a glow over his coppery hair, its richness muted with gray. He clears his throat. “This isn’t helping anyone.”

“Castle’s right,” Mr. Harding says from the House of Sagittarius. “Our boys wouldn’t want us pointing fingers. What happened wasn’t the queen’s fault. It wasn’t Tatum’s or Sebastian’s, either. They were honorable men trying to do the right thing by her.”

“The right thing?” Mr. Stone sneers. “Such as parading her virginity in front of a roomful of men? By the grace of Evangeline and the Original Twelve, our queen is still pure, and she must remain that way until after the auction.”

His eyes lock onto mine, intensifying to a midnight blue that sends a chill down my spine. “Enjoy your last night in the House of Aries,” he says, tone sharp as a blade. “Because things are about to change in this tower.”

I’m on my feet before I can think it through, apprehension and guilt warring over the pieces of my heart. In my haste to escape both, I topple my chair. It’s a horrid ruckus, just like the words spoken so cruelly around the table.

Like the chaos in my head.

“Novalee?” Liam stands as well. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, I turn on my heel and flee. Liam calls after me, but the alarm in his tone hardly registers as I rush out of the dining room, driven by Mr. Stone’s threats and accusations.

The portrait of Evangeline Castle haunts me down the hall, but I ignore her eerie face and stab the button for the elevator. Hysteria is close to pulling me under as the doors slide open, ushering me into private solitude. Blindly, I hit the button for the penthouse floor, then blink back tears as the car carries me upward. The ride makes me nauseous, my stomach churning with too much wine, and I swallow vomit as the elevator stops.

The doors slide open, and three people stumble inside, laughing and reeking of alcohol. In the hall, techno music blares from the open doors of the House of Scorpio. I’m not sure why I do it, but right as the elevator is about to close, I stick my hand out and escape into the hallway.

I’m not thinking straight as I enter Ford Stryker’s house. The living room is a wild tangle of half-naked bodies, every piece of furniture claimed by some form of debauchery. Sweat, smoke, and alcohol taint the air as I navigate through the writhing crowd.