THE SHADOW’S KING REVENGE

The Art Thief’s Emissary

The guards held their positions, weapons aimed at Dominic, waiting for orders that hadn't come yet. Marcus Cole was still on the floor, cradling his ruined wrist and making sounds that didn't quite qualify as words. The guests had backed away from the VIP section like it was contaminated, forming a wide semicircle of expensive suits and designer dresses.

Then the crowd parted, and she walked through.

Lady Seraphine moved like she was floating, her emerald gown catching the chandelier light with every step. She was the kind of beautiful that belonged on magazine covers: sharp cheekbones, perfect posture, dark hair swept up to show off a neck draped in diamonds. She'd been Vivienne's public face for five years, the woman who smoothed over controversies and made donors feel important.

She assessed the scene with practiced eyes: the broken security chief, the armed standoff, the stranger sitting calmly at a VIP table like he owned it. Her expression never shifted from pleasant concern.

"Gentlemen, let's all take a breath." Her voice carried across the ballroom, warm honey over steel. She gestured to the guards. "Lower your weapons. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding."

The guards hesitated, but eventually complied. Seraphine approached Dominic's table with her hands visible, non-threatening, the way you'd approach a dangerous animal.

"I'm Lady Seraphine, Ms. Ashford's director of public relations." She offered a smile that had probably defused a thousand awkward situations. "I apologize for the confusion. These events can be quite exclusive, and our security is... well, clearly overzealous." She glanced at Marcus, still writhing on the floor. "I'm sure we can resolve this without further incident."

Dominic took another sip of wine.

Seraphine's smile tightened, but held. "I understand you have something for Ms. Ashford? A gift, perhaps?" Her eyes dropped to the leather case. "I'd be happy to ensure she receives it personally. She's running late this evening, but she'll be here within the hour. I can make certain—"

"No."

The word hung in the air between them.

Seraphine blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'll give it to her myself." Dominic set down his glass. "In person."

"Of course, I understand the sentiment, but—"

"Then there's nothing else to discuss."

Seraphine's professional mask slipped for just a moment, irritation flashing across her features. She was used to getting her way through charm and status. Being dismissed this easily clearly didn't sit well.

"Sir, I'm trying to help you." Her tone had cooled several degrees. "You've assaulted a member of our security staff. That's a serious matter. But if you cooperate, I'm sure we can avoid involving the authorities—"

She reached for the leather case.

Dominic's hand moved in a blur. The backhand caught Seraphine across the face before her fingers touched the case. The crack of impact echoed through the ballroom like a gunshot. Seraphine spun halfway around from the force, her perfect hair coming loose, and hit the marble floor hard. The diamonds at her throat scattered light as she fell.

The ballroom gasped as one.

Seraphine pushed herself up on shaking arms, one hand pressed to her reddening cheek. Her eyes were wide with shock and something that might have been genuine fear. When she spoke, her voice trembled.

"You struck me."

"You tried to touch my mother's work," Dominic said. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "You're not worthy."

Seraphine's shock transformed into outrage. She scrambled to her feet, pointing at Dominic with a shaking hand. "This man just assaulted me! In front of everyone!" Her voice rose to a near-shriek. "Someone do something!"

Heavy footsteps thundered across the marble. The crowd parted again, and this time a young man pushed through, flanked by four bodyguards in matching black suits. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, with styled blond hair and a jaw that had probably never been punched. His tuxedo looked like it cost more than a car.

Tristan Ashford, Vvienne's son and tonight's host.

His face was red with fury. He took in the scene—Marcus on the floor, Seraphine disheveled and holding her face, his guards standing around uselessly while a stranger sat drinking wine, and something in him snapped.

"What the hell is going on here?" Tristan's voice cracked slightly, fury fighting with disbelief. He rounded on his security team. "You let this happen? You let some random walk in off the street, assault my staff, and you just stand there?"

The guards looked at each other, at Marcus still groaning on the floor, and said nothing.

Tristan turned to Dominic. "Who the hell are you? Do you have any idea whose house you're in? Whose event you just ruined?"

Dominic swirled his wine, watching the light play through the dark red liquid.

"I asked you a question!" Tristan stepped closer, his bodyguards moving with him. "You're going to get on your knees right now. You're going to apologize to Lady Seraphine. And then maybe—maybe—I won't have you arrested for assault and trespassing."

In his mind, Dominic wasn't in the penthouse ballroom anymore.

He was in the studio, ten years ago. Lily was eight years old, spinning in circles near the window, her laugh bright and pure as she pretended to be a ballerina. Their mother was at her easel, humming something tuneless under her breath while she worked, completely absorbed. The afternoon light came through the windows at just the right angle, turning everything golden.

Lily had stopped spinning and run to their mother. "Mama, look! I can do a pirouette!"

Eleanor had set down her brush and clapped, paint still wet on her fingers. "Beautiful, sweetheart. Just like a real dancer."

"When I grow up, I'm going to be a painter like you."

"You can be anything you want, Lily. Anything at all."

The memory hurt more than any physical wound.

Tristan was still talking, his voice getting louder, more desperate. "Are you even listening to me? Do you think this is funny? I'm giving you one last chance—kneel and apologize, or—"

"Beat him down!" Tristan's voice broke on the last word, his face purple with humiliation and rage. "I don't care what it takes! Beat him down! Now!"