Chapter 2

Twenty-four hours later.

Evelyn stepped through the mahogany double doors of the Delta Rho fraternity manor. Crystal chandeliers blasted blinding, warm light across the grand banquet hall. The air smelled of roasted bone marrow, expensive champagne, and old money. A stark, nauseating contrast to the freezing, metallic stench of the morgue.

She wore a floor-length black silk gown. Mourning attire disguised as high fashion. Beneath the fabric, every muscle in her body pulled tight as razor wire. Rage clawed frantically at the inside of her throat. She swallowed it down. She needed them entirely exposed.

Tristan intercepted her halfway across the Persian rug. He wore a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo. He flashed that perfectly practiced, devastating smile.

"You came," he whispered. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. His cologne—cedar and juniper—filled her lungs.

Evelyn’s stomach heaved. She wanted to drive her thumbs through his eyes. She forced her facial muscles into a stiff, trembling smile. Let him think it was grief. Let him think she was broken.

Tristan placed a warm hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the head table. The room hummed with the chatter of senators' sons and hedge-fund heirs. Tristan pulled out a heavy velvet chair for her. As she sat, he picked up a crystal flute and tapped it with a silver spoon.

The dining hall fell dead silent.

"To Evelyn," Tristan announced. His voice commanded the room, rich and dripping with manufactured empathy. "The strongest woman I know. In light of yesterday's tragic loss, my family is increasing her pre-nuptial trust to five million dollars. We take care of our own."

Polite, measured applause erupted around the table. The elite clapped for the price tag placed on a human life.

Evelyn stared straight ahead. She looked down at the marble floor beneath her chair. The veins in the stone were not natural. Pure silver inlay snaked through the grout, forming a tight, geometric lattice around her seat. A Puritan suppression array.

Tristan’s family knew she dabbled in the occult. They thought she was a low-level hedge witch. They thought this silver cage would keep a hysterical, grieving girl docile.

The sheer arrogance made her blood heat up.

A man in a sharp gray suit stepped out of the shadows. Tristan’s family fixer. He set a thick, leather-bound folder directly on top of Evelyn’s pristine china plate. He flipped it open.

The documents sat in neat, damning stacks.

A Non-Disclosure Agreement. A massive financial settlement for an "unfortunate municipal accident." A death certificate from the county coroner. Evelyn’s eyes locked onto the cause of death. Accidental drowning.

Tristan sat down next to her. He covered her cold hand with his warm, sweaty palm.

"Sign it, Evie," Tristan said softly. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb. "We can finally start over. Put this nightmare behind us. I am so incredibly sorry about Lily. I really am. But life has to go on. We have an empire to build together."

Evelyn yanked her hand away.

She picked up the heavy silver Montblanc pen resting beside the folder. She flipped through the thick parchment pages. Her eyes scanned the legal jargon, looking for the final nail in their coffin.

Page four. Page six.

She stopped.

Tucked neatly between the financial clauses lay a medical release form. Backdated. It was a retroactive organ donation consent form. It authorized the immediate extraction and transfer of Lily’s heart to one Chloe Parker. At the bottom sat a perfectly forged copy of Evelyn's signature.

They butchered her sister alive, and now they wanted Evelyn to legally sanction the slaughter for five million dollars.

Evelyn snapped her head up. Her gaze shot down the long mahogany table.

Chloe Parker sat three seats away. The famously dying billionaire heiress. Chloe wore a backless red dress. Her skin, usually a sickly translucent gray, flushed with unnatural, vibrant heat.

Chloe picked up a heavy silver steak knife. She cut into a thick piece of rare filet mignon. Blood pooled on the white porcelain. Chloe speared the meat and took a bite. She chewed with vigorous, healthy precision.

Evelyn stared at Chloe’s throat. She watched the pulse jumping in the heiress's carotid artery. A strong, steady, rhythmic thud.

Lily’s heartbeat.

A violent inferno roared to life inside Evelyn’s chest. The last thread of her restraint snapped.

She dropped the pen.

Evelyn grabbed the entire stack of legal documents. She ripped them violently in half. The thick parchment tore with a loud, vicious crack that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

The dining room went instantly silent. Forks froze in mid-air.

"Money buys life?" Evelyn’s voice sliced through the heavy silence. It carried no tears. Only a razor-sharp, lethal edge.

Tristan frowned. His perfect, sympathetic mask slipped, revealing a flash of genuine annoyance. "Evelyn, be reasonable. You're acting hysterical—"

"Tonight," Evelyn interrupted. She stood up. She kicked her heavy velvet chair backward. It crashed hard against the silver floor runes. She locked eyes with Tristan. "Let me show you a real equivalent exchange."

Evelyn snatched the serrated steak knife from her own table setting. Without a second of hesitation, she drove the jagged edge straight across her left palm.

Flesh parted. Blood welled instantly. Thick, black-red, and boiling with ancient power.

She slammed her bleeding hand directly onto the torn contracts.

The paper detonated. Crimson flames roared upward, consuming the leather folder in a fraction of a second. The fire did not burn the mahogany table. It liquefied. Her burning blood dripped off the edge of the wood and hit the marble floor.

The hidden silver suppression array beneath her feet shrieked like tearing metal. The runes flared with a blinding, violent white light as the power of the First Witch shattered the billionaire's trap into dust.