The strike echoed through the vaulted grand ballroom like the crack of a whip.

As guards dragged a screaming Chloe out of the ballroom, Seraphina’s eyes locked back onto Julian. The amusement was gone. Only ice remained.

"Your mistress has demonstrated the proper posture, Julian," Seraphina commanded, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous octave. "It’s your turn."

Julian felt a bead of sweat drip down his spine. His mother was clutching his arm, whispering frantic prayers. His ego screamed at him to turn around and walk out. But if he walked out, he walked into total ruin, federal investigations, and prison time.

If he knelt, maybe—just maybe—there was a shred of the woman who used to love him left inside that cold exterior.

Slowly, agonizingly, Julian Vance let his knees buckle.

The thud of his knees hitting the marble floor echoed loudly. He bowed his head, staring at the polished shoes of the elite guests surrounding him.

"I'm sorry," Julian choked out, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I was wrong. I am nothing without you, Seraphina. Please. Have mercy on my family."

Beatrice let out a strangled cry and covered her face, unable to watch the ultimate degradation of the Vance name.

Seraphina descended the final steps until she was standing right in front of him. She looked down at the man who had struck her. The man who had mocked her.