Elara's POV
The champagne glass shattered against the marble floor, and I knew something was wrong.
Not because of the broken glass—accidents happened at parties. But because Marcus didn't even look down. My fiancé just kept staring at Vivian, my best friend since college, with that weird expression I'd been trying to ignore all night.
"Elara!" Mrs. Chen rushed over, her jewelry clinking. "Your collection is absolutely stunning! That Japanese sword near the entrance—is it really from the 1500s?"
"The Serpent's Kiss," I said, forcing my attention back to my guests. "Yes, sixteen generations of samurai carried it before—"
"Before it ended up gathering dust until Elara rescued it," Marcus interrupted, sliding his arm around my waist. His cologne was too strong tonight. When had he started wearing so much? "My brilliant fiancée can't resist a sword with a sad story."
The guests laughed. I laughed too, even though something in his voice felt like a paper cut—small, sharp, stinging.
"It's not about sad stories," I said quietly. "It's about preservation. These swords are history. They deserve respect."
"Of course they do, darling." Marcus kissed my temple, but his eyes were already wandering back to Vivian across the room.
I'd spent three years building this gallery. Three years tracking down swords that museums had forgotten or collectors had abused. The Serpent's Kiss alone had taken eighteen months to acquire—I'd found it in a pawn shop in Tokyo, covered in rust, its value completely unknown to the owner. Now it gleamed under perfect lighting, protected by climate control and security systems that cost more than most people's cars.
Tonight was supposed to be perfect. My gallery's tenth anniversary. Marcus had proposed last month. Vivian had planned this entire party as a surprise. All my dreams were coming true.
So why did my stomach feel like I'd swallowed broken glass?
"Speech! Speech!" someone called out.
Marcus grabbed a fresh champagne glass and tapped it with a knife. The crowd quieted. Vivian appeared beside him—when had she moved?—with her camera ready. She'd been documenting everything tonight. "For your memories," she'd said.
"To Elara Thornwood," Marcus announced, his voice carrying across my gallery. "The woman who loves dead weapons more than living people."
More laughter. But this time it felt different. Cruel, almost.
"Marcus—" I started.
"I'm joking, obviously." He flashed that charming smile that had made me fall for him. "But seriously, folks. How many of you have tried to have dinner with Elara when she's researching a new acquisition? I once waited two hours at a restaurant because she'd found a lead on a Ming dynasty dao."
"That sword was being melted down for scrap metal!" I protested, my cheeks burning. "I had to save it!"
"See what I mean?" Marcus raised his glass higher. "Here's to Elara—may her passion for preservation never die."
Everyone drank. I didn't. Something about those words—never die—made my skin crawl.
The party continued for another hour. I smiled until my face hurt, answered questions about my collection, and pretended not to notice how often Marcus and Vivian disappeared to "check on the catering" together.
By midnight, the last guests had left. The cleaning crew had finished. I stood alone in my gallery, surrounded by three hundred years of history mounted on walls. Swords from every continent. Every era. Each one a life I'd saved from destruction or neglect.
"You really do love these things more than people, don't you?"
I spun around. Vivian stood in the doorway, but she wasn't smiling anymore. Her expression was cold. Calculating. Nothing like the warm friend who'd helped me move into my first apartment, who'd held me when my parents died, who'd been my sister in every way that mattered.
"Viv? What are you—"
"The vault," she said flatly. "Marcus is waiting."
My heart started pounding. "Why is Marcus in my vault?"
"Just come on, Elara. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
She turned and walked toward the back of the gallery. Toward the reinforced door that led to my private collection. The swords too valuable or too fragile for public display. The ones I kept for myself.
I should have run. Should have called security. Should have done anything except follow her down that hallway on shaking legs.
But Vivian was my best friend. And Marcus was my fiancé. There had to be an explanation.
The vault door was already open—impossible unless someone knew my code. Only three people in the world knew that code. Me, Vivian, and Marcus.
Inside, Marcus stood beside my display case. In his hands, he held the Serpent's Kiss.
"Marcus, put that down. You know you're not supposed to—"
"Sit down, Elara." His voice had changed. No warmth. No love. Just ice.
I looked at Vivian. She'd closed the vault door behind us. Locked it.
"I don't understand," I whispered.
Marcus tilted the sword, watching light dance along the blade. "Did you know this particular sword has killed sixteen people? Sixteen samurai who wielded it in battle. There's still blood in the grooves if you look closely enough."
"Marcus, you're scaring me."
"Good." He finally looked at me, and his eyes were empty. "You should be scared."
Vivian pulled papers from her purse. Legal documents. I saw my signature at the bottom—but I'd never seen these forms before.
"Power of attorney," Vivian explained, her voice businesslike. "Transfers everything to Marcus upon your death. Your gallery. Your collection. Your investments. Even your apartment."
"I never signed—"
"You did, actually. Remember last month when I asked you to notarize those 'insurance forms'?" She smiled, and it was the worst thing I'd ever seen. "You trusted me so much you didn't even read them."
The room tilted. "This isn't real. This is some kind of joke—"
"The joke," Marcus said, stepping closer, "is that you wasted your entire life on these stupid swords. No family. No real friends. Just dead metal you pretended to care about."
"You said you loved me." My voice cracked.
"I loved your money," he corrected. "And Vivian loved that you were too obsessed with your collection to notice us sleeping together for the past two years."
Two years. While I'd been planning our wedding. While I'd been trusting them with everything.
"Why?" The word came out broken. "Why not just leave? Why this?"
"Because you were going to donate everything to museums," Vivian said. "We found your will. Not one penny for Marcus. Not even a sword for me. Just museums and historical societies and strangers who never cared about you."
"Those institutions preserve history—"
"We're preserving our future," Marcus interrupted. "Unfortunately, that future doesn't include you."
He raised the Serpent's Kiss.
The sword I'd rescued from rust and ruin. The sword I'd spent eighteen months searching for. The sword I'd touched with reverence every single day.
Now it was going to kill me.
"Please," I begged, hating how small my voice sounded. "Please, I'll sign anything. You can have it all. Just please don't—"
"Too late, Elara." Vivian's camera clicked. "We need you dead, not cooperative. Dead people can't change their minds."
Marcus smiled. "Besides, isn't there something poetic about this? Dying by what you loved most?"
The Serpent's Kiss flashed forward.
I felt it pierce my chest—cold, sharp, impossibly painful. The blade slid between my ribs like it had been made for this exact purpose. Like all those centuries of history had led to this single moment.
I fell backward, and the last thing I saw was Marcus and Vivian standing over me, watching me die with the same casual interest I'd shown a thousand swords.
No love. No regret. Just cold calculation.
You're nobody's family, Vivian's voice echoed. No one will even miss you.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
And somewhere in that darkness, something ancient stirred.
Something that had been waiting three hundred years for a soul like mine.
Something hungry for revenge.