JULIAN
Even after I stormed out of there to my room, I could still hear their voices. I stepped out onto the balcony, the stone railing cold beneath my white-knuckled grip. I couldn't stop seeing Catherine's happy face, Dante's victorious smirk and Richard's forced, booming laughter. Everything happening in that dining room felt like a serrated blade across my skin.
I pulled a cigarette from the silver case in my pocket, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the lighter. I didn't care about the house rules. I didn't care about the "Golden Boy" image. I needed something to dull the image of Dante's hand on Catherine's waist—the way he had looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth breathing for.
I took a long, dragging pull, the acrid smoke burning my lungs. It was a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in my chest. He was a Varo. A prince of a global empire. And I was just a Vaughn; a puppet in a gilded cage, tied to my father's rules.
