Page 28 of Marrying My Professor

ELARA

The bass thrums through my chest before we even reach the door, a pulse that vibrates up through the soles of my stilettos and settles somewhere low in my ribs. Georgia links her arm through mine, steadying herself on heels that are absolutely not made for the uneven cobblestone path leading up to the Sovereign Bastards' house.

"Remind me why I let you talk me into this?" she asks, but she's grinning, her honey-blonde waves catching the light spilling from the windows.

"Because you love me," I say, adjusting the fur jacket draped over my shoulders. "And because you've been trying to get into one of these parties since freshman year."

"Fair," she concedes, tugging at the neckline of her own outfit—a black lace bodysuit under a sheer slip dress that makes her look like she walked straight out of a fever dream. "But if I die of alcohol poisoning, I'm haunting you first."

"I'll save you a spot in hell."

The house looms ahead of us, all Gothic Revival arches and leaded glass windows, the kind of architecture that screams old money and older secrets. Red light spills from every opening, painting the stone facade in shades of sin and invitation. Music pounds against the walls like a living thing, and I can already smell the mix of expensive cologne, sweat, and something sharp and chemical that makes my nose wrinkle.

We reach the door. A guy in a black suit stands guard, clipboard in hand, eyes flat and assessing. He looks us over once, lingering too long on the deep V of my bodysuit before meeting my gaze.

"Names?" he asks.

"We're guests of Wesley Carter," I say smoothly.

He doesn't even check the list. Just nods and steps aside, pulling the door open to reveal chaos incarnate.

Wesley texted me the phrase along with a reminder to come tonight, and for some reason the phrase seemed so familiar, but I don’t remember saying it. I lean in close to Georgia and whisper it like a secret: "Veritas videt tenebras."

The truth sees the dark.

Georgia gives me a strange look, but I'm already stepping inside, and the noise swallows us whole.

The interior is a cathedral of excess. The entry hall opens into a massive main room with vaulted ceilings and a chandelier dripping crystals that catch the strobing lights and scatter them like shattered glass. Bodies move everywhere—dancing, grinding, laughing with their heads thrown back and mouths open in ways that look more like ecstasy than joy. The air is thick, humid with bodies and breath and the cloying sweetness of flavored vodka mixing with something darker, something chemical.

Dancers perform on raised platforms, barely clothed, bodies slick with sweat and glitter as they move in sync with the bass. One girl hangs from a silk suspended from the ceiling, spinning in slow, hypnotic circles, her legs wrapped around the fabric in ways that defy physics. Another platform holds two people—I can't tell their genders in the low light—locked together in a performance that blurs the line between dance and something far more intimate.

"Holy shit," Georgia breathes beside me.

"Yeah," I manage.

A guy stumbles past us, pupils blown wide, grinning like he's discovered the meaning of life at the bottom of a Solo cup. Two girls lean against the wall, passing something small and white between them, giggling as one of them tips her head back and lets whatever it is dissolve on her tongue.

This is sin, distilled and concentrated and served with a smile.

And Brandon was part of this.

The thought hits me hard, sudden and sharp enough to make my chest tighten. I look around at the chaos, the abandon, the sheer hedonistic excess of it all, and I can't reconcile it with my brother. Brandon, who used to make me hot chocolate when I couldn't sleep. Brandon, who volunteered at the animal shelter every Saturday and cried when his favorite dog got adopted. Brandon, who was too fucking sweet for a world like this.

What was he doing here?

What did they promise him to make him think this was worth it?

"Elara."

I blink, shaking off the spiral. Georgia's tugging at my arm, pointing toward the bar set up along the far wall. It's crowded, but we weave through, my fur jacket brushing against bare shoulders and expensive suits as we go.

I'm reaching for a jello shot—electric blue and wobbling obscenely in its plastic cup—when a voice cuts through the noise behind me.

"Well, aren't you a vision."

I turn.

The guy standing there is tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face that belongs on a magazine cover or a wanted poster—I can't decide which. Dark hair swept back, sharp jawline, eyes the color of whiskey in low light. He's wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top three buttons undone to reveal a chest that's clearly seen the inside of a gym. A gold crow's skull pin glints at his collar.