Chapter 3

Reva's POV

The limousine rolled through the tall iron gates of the Brickstone estate, and I still couldn't believe any of this was real.

An hour ago I'd been lying in a hospital bed, counting the last breaths I thought I had left. I didn't believe him when he said he could heal me. Why would I? But then his hand had glowed silver over my chest, and the sickness had drained out of me like water out of a basket, and I'd sat up whole and strong for the first time in months.

When I walked out of that hospital on my own two legs, this car was already waiting at the entrance. A long black limousine, engine running. Inside, laid across the seat, was a deep red gown in my exact size and a pair of heels that fit like they'd been made for my feet.

He'd planned all of it before I ever said yes. I didn't ask how. I was learning quickly that Kael was not the kind of man you asked how.

"Breathe," he said beside me now, not even looking up from the window. "You wanted this."

"I know."

"Then act like you know."

The car slowed at the foot of a wide marble staircase. Through the tinted glass I saw them, dozens of guests in silk and gold, drinks in hand, laughing on the steps. The whole pack. Everyone who mattered. Everyone who'd left me to die.

The driver opened my door, and I stepped out into the warm night air.

The noise on the steps died like someone had pressed a mute button. . Heads turned. Conversations stopped mid-word. I felt every eye crawl over the red gown, over my thick shining hair, over a face that three months ago had been grey and hollow, but now glowed with life.

I watched the confusion ripple through them, watched them lean and whisper. The moment recognition landed and their eyes widened.

...it's Reva.

...that's Reva.

... isn't she supposed to be dying?

Kael came around the car and offered me his arm like we'd done this a hundred times. I rested my hand on it, and we climbed the stairs, while the crowd parted for us. It actually parted.

Inside, the hall opened up grand and bright. Decoration everywhere, a live band, champagne catching the gold light. And there at the rear end, on a small raised platform, stood Derick and Pamela, hands joined, a velvet box with two rings resting on a cushion between them.

The officiant was still speaking. I'd arrived just in time to watch them promise themselves to each other.

My steps slowed. Something twisted hard in my chest, and for one ugly moment the old Reva rose up in me, the girl who'd loved that man, who'd have given anything to be the one standing on that platform. It hurt so much. I won't pretend it didn't. Under all my fire, some small and stupid corner of my heart still broke at the sight of them.

Then Pamela looked up and saw me, and her smile fell right off her face.

The officiant trailed off. Derick turned, followed her stare, and went white to the lips.

I found my mother next. She stood off to the side in a deep blue dress, a champagne glass frozen halfway to her mouth. Our eyes met for half a second before she dropped hers to the floor and couldn't lift them again. My own mother couldn't hold my gaze for one single moment.

That was the thing that hardened me. That burned the last of the soft Reva clean away.

I lifted my chin and let them all look.

For a breath, nobody moved. Then the spell broke, and my mother was crossing the room fast, heels clicking on the marble, her face tight with something that wasn't joy.

"Reva." She reached me and closed a hand around my wrist. "Sweetheart, come. Come with me, just for a moment."

She pulled me toward a quiet corner, out in a balcony, away from the staring crowd, and her grip was tight and trembling. Up close I could see the panic in her eyes, darting between my face and the guests behind us.

"Look at you," she breathed. "You're well. You're really well. This is wonderful, this is a miracle, but you can't do this here. Not tonight. Think of the family. Think of what people will say."

"The family," I repeated softly.

"The Brickstones are watching. Your sister's whole future is in this room." Her hand tightened. "Whatever this is, we can talk about it at home. As a family. Please, baby. Don't make a scene."

There it was. Not "I missed you." Or "I'm sorry I stopped coming." Not one word about the dog she promised, the nights she swore she'd stay. Only — "don't make a scene." Her daughter had come back from the edge of death, and all she felt was fear that I'd embarrass her in front of richer people.

I looked down at her hand on my wrist until she let go.

"You switched off your phone," I began, "You promised to bring Joan, and then you switched off your phone so I couldn't reach you. Do you remember what you were doing while I called?"

Her mouth opened. No sound came out.

Before she could find an excuse, Pamela was already here, storming across the floor with her champagne gown swishing and two spots of angry color high on her cheeks.