The Black Iris Reclaims Her ThroneChapter 2

I pull a spare towel from my pocket and begin dabbing the stain on my chest.

Sean watches me, a flicker of sadistic satisfaction in his eyes.

"She apologized to you. Are you deaf?" He snatches the towel from my hand and hurls it to the floor. "A blind girl who can't even catch a drink... what's the point of even keeping that left eye?"

At the word blind, my hand pauses for a fraction of a second.

Izzy immediately pivots back to her "guilt-ridden" persona, her eyes brimming with tears. "Sean, don't blame her. She can't see on the right side; it's natural for her to have blind spots. If she hadn't given her cornea to me, she wouldn't be like this."

Sean pulls her behind him protectively. "She owed you! The crash happened because she tried to grab the wheel. Giving you that eye was the only way she could ever begin to pay you back!"

I look up. My left eye fixes on Sean’s arrogant, self-righteous face. "Sean, let’s talk about that night on the mountain road. Who was it that actually yanked the wheel to the left, sacrificing the passenger seat to save themselves?"

His eyes flicker with a momentary shadow of guilt, but it’s instantly swallowed by his ego. "If you hadn't been screaming at Izzy, I wouldn't have been distracted! Besides, Izzy is a ballerina. Her eyes are her life. You? You were just a lab rat. Why did you need perfect vision to look through a microscope?"

The sheer, distorted logic of it makes me want to laugh. "So, that gave you the right to use your connections at the hospital to bump me off the transplant list? To watch the nerves in my eye die while I begged for help?"

Sean speaks as if he’s explaining something to a child. "It was your own fault. If you hadn't been so stubborn—if you’d just signed the divorce papers and the settlement—I wouldn't have cut off your medical fund."

He points to the puddle of red wine on the floor. "Now. Get down. Clean that up with your tongue, and I’ll pay for your suit."

Bleach-hair bangs on the table, howling with laughter. "That’s genius! Do it! That’s a five-thousand-dollar bottle of Burgundy! You’ll never taste anything that expensive again in your life!"

I don't move. I just stare at Sean. "Are you sure you want me to kneel?"

Sean, sensing my "fear," lets a cruel smirk pull at his lips. "What? Realizing how small you are now? Too late."

He steps forward, attempting to grind his shoe into the hem of my trousers. "You left with such drama two years ago. I thought you had spine. Turns out you’re just another gutter rat willing to bend for a dollar."

I step back, avoiding his touch. "Sean, you are going to regret every word you’ve said tonight."

Izzy stomps her foot with a delicate whine. "Nicole, why are you still acting so tough? Sean is the new titan of the city. If you offend him, you won't even be able to wash dishes in this town."

Her eyes suddenly lock onto something pinned to my chest—a subtle, black iris lapel pin with dark, shimmering accents.

"Oh, look at that pin. How... unique. Is that some knock-off you bought at a flea market to look fancy?"

That pin was placed there by Cillian Blackwell himself. It is the crest of the Blackwell matriarch.

Sean follows her gaze. His eyes narrow. He reaches out and violently rips the pin from my lapel.

The sharp needle grazes my collarbone, drawing a thin line of blood.

"Trash like this doesn't belong in a Blackwell venue."

He drops the pin and grinds it into the carpet with his heel.

"Nicole, you must be desperate, wearing high-end fakes to try and fit in."

I look at the mangled black iris on the floor. My heart goes cold. "That belongs to the Blackwell family."

Sean explodes into laughter.

"The Blackwells? You?" He points a finger at my face, his voice dripping with disdain. "Are you delusional? Do you even know who Cillian Blackwell is? He’s the King of this city. You aren't even fit to shine his shoes!"

Izzy giggles, leaning into him. "Nicole, even if you want to climb the social ladder, don't tell such ridiculous lies. If the Blackwells heard you, they’d have you blacklisted from the planet."

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the VIP suite swing open.

The club manager, Mr. Miller, rushes in with a squad of security guards. He’s sweating through his suit.

"Mr. Vane! What’s going on? Who caused this disturbance?"