Chloe Gong

Once, Roma would have been able to see right through her. But four years had gone by now. He had changed. So had she.

Then the sight of the Scarlet heiress washed over him like a bucket of ice. Roma’s lips parted with a small puff of air.

The last time he’d seen her, they had been fifteen.

“Juliette,” he exclaimed automatically, but they were no longer familiar enough to use each other’s first names. They hadn’t been for a long while.

She should have thrown him to the Scarlets, let them deal with him.

No, she decided. He is mine to deal with. He is mine to destroy.

Their relatives jumped to their feet at the sight of Tyler, hurrying to fetch a chair, to fetch more tea, to fetch another plate—probably one engraved with gold and crusted with crystal. Despite Juliette’s position as the heir to the Scarlet Gang, they would never simper after her in such a manner. She was a girl. In their eyes, no matter how legitimate, she would never be good enough.

Her jaw gritted to brace for impact, Juliette twisted her foot out behind Roma’s and jerked it against his ankles—until he was falling backward and she followed, one hand locked on his neck and the other reaching into her dress pocket to retrieve a needle-thin knife.

“Okay,” Juliette heaved, breathing hard. She had him pinned flat on his back, her knees on either side of his hips and her blade pressed to his throat. “Let’s try this again like civilized people.”

Roma’s pulse jumped under her fingertips, his throat straining to move away from the blade. His eyes were dilated as he stared at her, adjusting to the shadows of the sunset while the alleyway faded into a dusky violet. They were close enough to be sharing quick, short breaths, despite both of their best efforts to appear unbothered by the exertion of the struggle.

“Civilized?” Roma echoed. His voice was scratchy. “You have me at knifepoint.”

“You had me at gunpoint.”

She turned her gaze back to Roma and found him smiling, his beautiful, wicked lips quirked in mockery.

“What?” Roma asked. He sounded almost teasing. “You thought I only had one?”

The cold press of metal touched her waist. Its chill seeped through the fabric of her dress, printed its shape into her skin.

It was rather that their proximity to each other, with Juliette walking ahead and Roma trailing three paces behind so they weren’t seen together, was horrifyingly familiar and, quite frankly, the last thing Juliette wanted to feel for Roma Montagov was nostalgia.

And Roma was bristling right back, inspecting the houses with his eyes narrowed into the twilight.

It hurt to look at him like this: unaware, curious.

“Careful that you don’t trip,” Roma intoned.

Juliette glared at him, though he was still looking at the houses, then forced her gaze back onto the sidewalk before her. She should have known any sort of obliviousness from Roma Montagov was merely an act. She had once known him better than she knew herself. She used to be able to predict his every move… except the one time when it really mattered.

When they were launching marbles along the uneven ground, they were just Roma and Juliette, not Roma Montagov and Juliette Cai, the heirs of rival gangs. They were laughing kids who had found a confidant, a friend who understood the need to be someone else if only for a while each day.

They fell in love.

At least—Juliette thought they had.

Now it may be ugly, but it is glorious.