The Black Iris Reclaims Her ThroneChapter 1

The moment of the crash is a blur of screeching metal and the smell of burning rubber. In that split second, to protect his first love, Sean Vane jerked the steering wheel toward himself, violently throwing my side of the car into the path of the oncoming semi-truck.

Later, outside the ER, he prioritized her comfort over my survival. He pulled the strings of his influence to cancel my priority status for a corneal transplant, handing my chance at sight to her instead. I woke up to a world that was half-dark, permanently blind in my right eye.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I simply waited until the nurses were gone, ripped out my IV, and vanished from the city, carrying my scars into the shadows.

Two years later, Sean has become a god of the venture capital world. Tonight, he’s at the city’s most exclusive private club, playing the part of the doting protector to his precious Izzy.

And I? I’m standing here in a stiff waiter’s tuxedo, serving them vintage champagne.

Sean looks at my fallen state, his eyes mocking and cold.

"Nicole, if you had just been obedient back then, would you really have ended up like this? So pathetic that anyone can trample on you?"

He leans in, his voice a low, condescending drawl. "Drop the pride. Bow your head, and I might find a place for you in one of my private care facilities. I’ll see to it that you’re looked after for the rest of your life."

Pathetic? In need of charity?

He has no idea. Tonight isn’t just the gala for Cillian Blackwell—the heir to the Blackwell empire—to take over the family throne.

It’s the night he tells the world that I am the woman ruling it by his side.

* * *

"Nicole, if you had just been obedient back then, would you really have ended up like this?"

Sean looks down at me from his pedestal of wealth. Izzy Montgomery is nestled in his arms, her eyes wide and faux-innocent.

"Just apologize," he continues. "My private clinic can provide you with lifelong care. You wouldn't have to live like this."

I keep my spine perfectly straight, the silver eye patch over my right eye catching the dim light of the lounge. "Mr. Vane’s charity has too high a price. A 'broken' woman like me wouldn't want to overstep."

I place the tray firmly on the marble tabletop and turn to leave.

"Stay right there."

Sean’s voice drops an octave, turning icy.

The circle of trust-fund vultures in the booth stop their laughing. Their eyes lock onto me.

"Is this her, Bash? The high-and-mighty ex?" A guy with bleached hair and a Rolex that cost more than a house let out a sharp whistle. "Man, she’s a mess. Does this club really hire cripples with one eye now?"

Izzy tugs at Sean’s sleeve, her brow furrowed in a practiced display of concern. "Sean, don't be so hard on her. I’m sure she had her reasons for running away."

She turns to me, her eyes gleaming with a triumph she can’t quite hide. "Nicole, if you’re really struggling for money, I can ask Sean to find you a job as a janitor at the firm. It’s better than carrying trays and taking insults from strangers."

I look at them—the predator and the parasite—and feel nothing but a hollow sense of absurdity.

"Save your pity for the stray dogs, Izzy. I don't need it."

Sean slams his glass onto the table with a deafening crack.

"Nicole Sinclair, two years and you’re still as stubborn as a damn rock." He stands up, closing the distance between us until I can smell his expensive cologne—the same scent I used to associate with home, now the scent of my nightmare.

"Do you think this 'pure and tragic' act makes me feel sorry for you? Without me, you couldn't even find a real job. You’re nothing but a glorified servant."

I meet his gaze with my one good eye. It’s calm. Dead calm. "If I’m so beneath you, Mr. Vane, why are you so desperate to talk to me? Aren't you afraid my 'lowly' status might rub off on you?"

He snaps. He lunges forward, grabbing my jaw in a vice-like grip, forcing my head up.

"Don't push your luck. Tonight is Cillian Blackwell’s night. The only reason you’re even allowed to breathe the air in this room is because people like me hold the tickets. You’d never set foot in a place like this if I hadn't opened the door for you."

I let out a soft, jagged laugh. "Is that so? Then I suppose I should thank you for your 'blessings,' Mr. Vane."

Izzy rushes over, her hand fluttering over Sean’s wrist. "Sean, you’re hurting her! Let go!"

She slides between us, artfully pushing him back while holding out a glass brimmed with dark liquor. "Nicole, since you’re the server here, why don't you do your job? Drink this. Consider it an apology to Sean for your disrespect."

I look at the amber liquid, nearly spilling over the rim. I don't move. "Club policy. Staff are forbidden from drinking on shift."

Sean scoffs, snatching the glass from Izzy. "Rules are for people who don't own the room. In here, I am the rule."

He holds the glass to my face, his eyes dark with a cruel intent. "Drink it. Or I’ll call the manager right now, have him strip that uniform off you, and throw you out into the street."

The air in the VIP booth turns frigid.

Bleach-hair cheers from the side. "Drink up! It’s a gift from the king! Get on your knees and say thank you!"

I reach up and slowly straighten the lapel of my tuxedo.

"Sean," I say quietly. "Do you really think that if you throw me a few scraps of your life, I’ll crawl on the floor and lick your boots?"

Sean’s face turns a violent shade of red.

"You’re asking for it, Nicole!"

Suddenly, Izzy lets out a sharp gasp. The glass in her other hand tilts, seemingly by accident, drenching the front of my white shirt and vest.

"Oh my god! Nicole, I’m so sorry! My hand slipped!"

She covers her mouth, her eyes dancing with malice. "That uniform looks so expensive... can you even afford the cleaning fee?"