Page 89 of Beautiful Venom
Once we’re at the door, I awkwardly say, “I’m sorry about Kane. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“Don’t be.” She smiles softly and pats my hand. “I think you’re a good person, Dahlia. So let me offer you a piece of advice.”
“Yes?”
“Run away while you can. Once you’re in, you’ll never be able to leave.”
17
DAHLIA
Two days later, Kane sent me an invitation to a party.
Not just any party.
A members-only party.
To say I wish I could high-five myself would be an understatement. I knew that patience would eventually get me here.
To Ravenswood Hill.
The Armstrongs are hosting this event in their extravagant mansion.
The security is tight around the gated community, and my invitation had to be scanned by some special infrared machine, and I was thoroughly searched for weapons.
Even though the invitation said to dress formal and wear the Vencor mask, I had to remove it for security reasons and then put it back on.
As for the formal part, I had to wear the dress I found in a box that came with the invitation.
The dress is pure sin, a deep, dark red that clings to every curve like blood-soaked silk. A slit slices up my leg, stopping just above my left knee, teasing with every step I take. The luxurious fabric hugs my waist, the neckline plunging just enough to toe the line between elegance and danger.
It fits me well. Too well, actually.
The fact that Kane knows my size is unnerving.
I tucked away the invitation card, but I couldn’t hide the dress from Megan. She freaked out for half an hour about how stunning I looked and how gorgeous the dress was.
Oh, and there were black designer heels, which I’m struggling to walk in.
According to Megan, the dress and heels cost at least twenty grand. All I could think about was how that amount of money could help with my sister’s medical care.
Though I’m uncomfortable with the gift and plan to return it as soon as the party is over, I couldn’t come to my first Vencor party with an inappropriate outfit.
I’m also thankful for the mask. At least this way, anonymity protects me, in a sense.
My steps falter as I enter the main hall.
I’ve always heard stories about people living in a detached, different world, but I haven’t fully understood the meaning until now.
The Armstrong mansion is a palace wrapped in shadows, opulence dripping from every corner. The massive crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the black marble floors, the shimmer of gold and silver reflecting off the walls like a thousand stars trapped indoors.
Everything gleams—from the polished wood, extravagant sculptures, and the ancient art that shouldn’t belong to this world.
I’m completely and utterly dazzled by a type of money I’ve never witnessed in my life. Not even in movies.
Suddenly, trepidation pulses through my every nerve, and I feel like a mouse trapped in cat land.
The ballroom is massive, too large for comfort, with towering windows draped in rich velvet. The curtains fall heavy and dark, almost swallowing the light. Tables are scattered with fine crystal and gleaming silverware, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows that dance across the masked faces.
