Page 1 of Feral King

CHAPTER 1

LYRA

Every woman in this city knows the rule: don't catch a Volkov's attention.

So of course, tonight, I dressed to be seen.

I glance down at my ring finger, now bare. The engagement ring that used to sit there bought me three months' rent at a pawn shop this morning.

Best deal I ever made.

The pawnbroker asked if I was sure.Twice. Like he'd seen a hundred women march in with a ring and march back the next morning, crying, asking for it back.

Not this woman.

Keep the receipt, buddy.

I didn't know it yet, but tonight was going to cost me more than the ring.

I step out of the elevator and into the grand foyer of The Meridian. Crystal chandeliers scatter light across marble floors as a string quartet plays Debussy in the east corner. Waitstaff dressed all in black zip here and there like silent shadows.

Money. Everywhere.

Seven years ago I got off a bus from New Orleans with two suitcases and a scholarship letter, and rooms like this made my palms sweat. They still do. I've just gotten better at hiding it.

My dress is emerald silk, cut on the bias for a woman with actual hips and zero interest in apologizing for them. The neckline doesn't apologize for a damn thing either. It cost more than my monthly rent, which, given recent events, is really saying something.

My feet already hurt. Worth it bitch.

Alexander spent two years trying to teach me to hate this body. Diets he'd suggest over dinner. Mirrors he'd stand me in front of. It took him two years to build that cage.

It took me three weeks to burn it down.

Heads turn as I enter.

Let them.

I paid enough for this dress that staring should honestly be included.

And I need tonight to go well, because the email from Julian Volkov, the mysterious CEO back after three years of silence, said I'd be paid for my time. Dad's insurance premiums are due in nine days. His heart surgery is coming, and my parents' retirement fund wouldn't cover the anesthesia.

My parents spent their lives taking care of me. It's my turn. That's just how love works where I come from.

I try not to notice the stares. But I can feel the ripple, the pause in conversation.

"That's Lyra Thibodeaux, right?"

"I thought she quit."

I straighten my shoulders. Let them talk. Once your breakup makes the society pages, embarrassment loses its grip on you. It's almost freeing.

Almost.

I lift my chin and walk in like I own the place.

In a way, that's true. Every decision that made this place what it is tonight carries my fingerprints. The florals. The seating chart. The AV setup, even the redesigned Volkov Foundation crest.

I earned this job under my mother's maiden name, aced three interviews as plain Lyra Broussard so nobody could say I was hired as the boss's fiancée. It's the one thing Alexander could never take from me.