4. Iris

The backstage is a hive of barely contained chaos, professors in their drab robes muttering about misplaced notes, and my fellow high-GPA drones fidgeting with their note cards like they're trying to unravel some academic mystery. I stand there amidst it all, my heart thumping a relentless beat that's more suited to the throes of a rave than this temple of intellectual achievement.

"Keep it together, Iris," I whisper under my breath, but my hands are traitors, slick with anxiety as if they've been dipped in oil. Every intake of air feels like I'm trying to breathe through a straw, short and unsatisfying. My chest tightens, squeezing around my lungs like a vise.

"Looking pale, angel. Nervous to give your little speech?" I hear my stepbrother's voice snarl the words, but he's nowhere in sight. I know that I'm just looking for a release because I'm teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. Lincoln Blackwood is the perfect way to take the edge off, make all my anxiety disappear for a little while. I'm craving the high he gave me the night before the wedding, the way I felt boneless without a care in the world. It feels like it just happened and also that a month has passed by when in reality it's only been a few days.

"Get out of my head, Lincoln," I retort to the fake Lincoln in my head. I'm sure that psychopath would love to know just how inside my mind he really is.

I press my fingertips into my palms, feeling the clamminess as if it's an omen of the impending doom waiting for me on that stage. It's not the accolade that unnerves me; it's the sea of eyes that will be watching, judging, waiting for me to stumble over a syllable. Academic excellence I can handle; it's the public display of it that chokes me.

Instead, I plaster on a smile that I'm certain doesn't reach my eyes because they're always too shadowed by doubt. "It'll be fine. It'll be perfect. It'll go by quick," I lie through my teeth to myself, the words almost getting lost in the dry desert my mouth has become.

"Remember, deep breaths," some well-meaning drone advises, and I fight the instinct to roll my eyes so hard they might dislodge from their sockets. It's not her fault that I don't want this. Any of this. It's not her fault that she's here because she wants to be top of her class and I'm here so I don't upset my father.

"Revolutionary advice," I quip anyway, biting my lip until I taste the faint tang of iron. This is what it comes down to - me, backstage, grappling with the suffocating dread of articulation when all I want is to articulate nothing at all.

My heart's a jackhammer in my chest, threatening to break through my ribcage as if it's seeking an escape from this madness. I can almost hear my father's voice, that ice-cold sneer slicing through me, "Iris Marie, always the disappointment." A shiver runs down my spine, and it's not from the draft in this godforsaken place. Only my father's voice could push me to wish Lincoln's condescending snicker was back in my head, taunting me.

"Imagine walking away now," I mutter under my breath, the thought alone enough to conjure images of my father's furrowed brow, the way he'd loom over me like some heavy cloud ready to burst. The memory of his hand gripping my arm too tightly at last year's charity event burns in my mind, as real as the scars hidden beneath my gown.

"Pathetic," I can hear him say because I froze up during that speech, and even now, the accusation stings worse than any slap. My fingers twitch, longing to tear off the vintage watch that weighs on my wrist like a shackle. That same wrist he once grabbed, hissing about family pride when all I did was stumble over a few words.

I clench my jaw, trying to ground myself in the present, but the panic is a living thing inside me, writhing and clawing its way up my throat. I've fought battles before—against my own demons, against the gaping hole my mother left behind when she died—but this feels like a war I'm destined to lose.

With one last glance at the velvet curtains that stand between me and public humiliation, I bolt. My heels click-clack against the concrete floor with a rhythm that matches the frantic beat of my pulse. I dodge a cluster of professors oblivious to my crisis.

"Excuse me," I gasp out as I squeeze past a gaggle of students who probably don't have to worry about having a breakdown in front of an audience today.

The cool evening air slaps me in the face as I shove the stage door open, and I savor it for a moment, letting it fill my lungs and clear my head. But freedom is short-lived; it only takes a few strides before I reach the massive stone staircase, each step a monument to the history of St. Charles University—a history that now seems to mock me.

"Great, Iris, really nailing the whole poised future valedictorian vibe," I chide myself, sarcasm dripping from every word as if it could shield me from my embarrassment. My hand reaches for the locket hanging around my neck, and I clutch it like a lifeline. Inside, my mother smiles back at me, her image a stark contrast to the chaos of my current state.

"Sorry, Mom," I whisper, guilt gnawing at me for this spectacular failure. But I can't go back. I won't.

"Academic excellence, my ass," I scoff, descending the stairs as if each one leads further away from the disappointment that coats my name. But it's just a staircase, not a portal to another world where I don't have to live up to the Shelby legacy. Still, it's the only refuge I've got right now.

Stiletto clicks echo like a metronome for the damned, drawing my attention across the courtyard. In a red pantsuit so vivid it could ignite the night itself is Lincoln's mom…well, my stepmother, I suppose. Tailored to accentuate every curve that money can buy, it's a loud statement in a sea of academic gray. Her blonde hair cascades perfectly over her shoulders, and that signature smugness paints her face like she's the one slated for valedictorian of my senior class next year.

"Of course, you're here," I mutter under my breath, the taste of resentment more bitter than black coffee on my tongue. My father told me he couldn't make it tonight, but he hadn't mentioned that he'd be sending his new wife to ensure I don't fuck up.

Her laughter cuts through the distance, the sound as genuine as a forged diploma. She doesn't walk; she prowls, aware of every eye she commands. She wears confidence and arrogance like it's her second skin, and she wears it with more ease than that screaming ensemble.

I press my back against the cold stone wall, feeling its chill seep into my bones. Why would she agree to come here tonight? This is surely not her vibe and she'll be bored out of her mind. My mind races, unbidden thoughts tearing through the fog of panic. Dad's wallet is open wide enough to land a plane in, and her presence screams of another withdrawal.

"Maybe she's trying to prove she can play mommy dearest to the Ivy League hopeful," I sneer internally, the words sharp enough to draw blood.

The suspicion coils in my stomach, a serpent ready to strike. Every forced smile, each syrupy word that slips from her lips, might as well be laced with toxin. The bitterness isn't enough to mask the growing resentment. It festers, a silent scream against the walls I've built to keep out people exactly like her.

I steel my spine, a soldier bracing for battle. The acidic taste of apprehension fills my mouth, but I swallow it down with practiced ease. "You've faced worse," I mutter under my breath, remembering every scathing remark that's ever been flung my way. My heart hammers against my chest like a caged bird desperate to escape, but I shove the panic into a box and lock it tight.

"Charm and disarm," I coach myself, recalling every insincere smile I've ever had to plaster on my face to placate my father. Breathing in deep, I let the scent of fresh-cut grass and distant flowers from the courtyard wash over me, a brief respite before I step into the lioness' den. I force my legs to move, each step down the stone staircase deliberate, measured—like descending from my own personal purgatory into an inferno of awkward social niceties.

With each downward step, I channel my inner witch, too; if she's going to play this game, I'll match her move for move. The air carries the faint strains of conversation and laughter, a discordant soundtrack to the scene playing out before me. I plaster on a smile so warm it could melt glaciers, or at least thaw the icy regard of a would-be step monster. My lips curve upward, the muscles straining against the weight of my disdain.

I hold Lincoln's mom's attention with a confidence I'm far from feeling. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, but I don't blink, don't waver. She's a panther clad in crimson, sleek and powerful, but I'll be damned if I show even an ounce of fear.

"Darling Iris," she responds, her voice honeyed, but I can hear the razor edge beneath the sweetness. It's a dance we perform, steps learned and memorized, with no room for mistakes.

"What a lovely surprise," I lie through my teeth, the words dripping with a saccharine malice we both understand perfectly.

I lock my jaw, keep the smile fixed like it's wired to my cheeks. Her scent wafts toward me—a mix of roses and something cloyingly sweet, like desperation dressed in floral notes. It's overpowering, almost enough to mask the stench of hypocrisy. Who the hell is still wearing rose perfume?

"Your speech is going to be the highlight of the day, I'm sure," Lincoln's mom trills, voice rising in pitch with each syllable. It grates on my ears, a sound I imagine could summon bats from hell.

"Thank you," my words are ice, wrapped in velvet. "It's unfortunate my father couldn't make it."

Her lips stretch wider, too wide, unnatural. "Oh, he wanted to be here, but you know how busy he is. Always working so hard for us."

"Us," I echo, letting the word hang between us—a hitch we're both pretending not to see. The muscles in my face twitch with the effort of maintaining the facade.

"Absolutely, darling." She pats my arm, nails grazing my skin through the fabric, leaving a trail that feels like tiny flames licking at me.

"Can't wait." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. But I swallow it down, let it burn on its way, because I know the game we're playing. Every word, every gesture, it's all a performance—one wrong move, and the curtain falls.

The air vibrates with a tension you could cut through with a knife. It's a pulsating, living thing that coils around me, and I'm trying my damnedest not to let it strangle me. Then, like a storm rolling in out of nowhere, he appears. Lincoln Blackwood in the flesh. His presence hits me like a sucker punch to the gut—unexpected and leaving me winded.

"Mom? What are you doing here?" Lincoln's voice is a low growl, his face a perfect canvas of confusion painted with streaks of irritation. He stands tall and imposing, casting a long shadow that feels like a threatening promise. His intense eyes narrow, drilling into her as if he's trying to pry open her mind and reveal its secrets.

"Supporting Iris, of course," she replies, her tone all sugar and spice with an undercurrent of shaky. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, which hold a glint sharp enough to slice through the warm afternoon air. She puts on this show for him, but I see right through it; we both do.

"Right," he says, the word heavy with skepticism. He crosses his arms over his chest—an imposing barrier of sinew and inked skin—and levels a glare at her that could make lesser mortals cower. He doesn't have to say what he's thinking. I can read it all over his stoically handsome face. She's never shown up on campus for him. I'd be willing to bet on that.

Tension crackles between them like a downed power line just waiting to spark and burn everything in its path. Lincoln's eyes, as tumultuous as a storm-tossed sea, brood with that smoldering intensity I've come to both dread and crave. He's all sharp jawline and clenched fists, a silent testament to the barely restrained ire within him. The muscles along his arms twitch, his tattoos seeming to shift with his simmering rage. His mother, meanwhile, is a frozen sculpture of poise, her smile plastered, but her eyes—sharp and calculating—betray the chill of her feigned affection.

"Run along dear, Iris and I need to get going if I'm going to get a good seat," she coos, each word wrapped in velour yet edged with steel.

My pulse hammers in my throat, the fluttering sensation in my chest now full-blown ripplings of panic. I'm caught in their crossfire, a pawn in whatever twisted game they're playing. It's like watching a dance where every step is choreographed to inflict the maximum amount of damage. I can't tear my eyes away from Lincoln's tight expression, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, signaling his effort to keep control.

"Actually, I think I'll join you, Mother," he grinds out, and his words feel like a boulder, heavy with unspoken threats. His glare pivots to me, and I have to remind myself to breathe. To not give in to the knee-jerk reaction to either flee or confront. I'm a badass, not some damsel in distress, but damn if this situation isn't unraveling me faster than a spool of thread being batted around between two cats. "I wouldn't want to miss anything that Iris does. She's perfect, after all."

I manage a nod, my face a mask of neutral politeness that fools no one. The air is thick with unsaid things, desires and resentments mingling like some kind of perverse aromatic. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne, a woodsy musk that does annoyingly delightful things to my senses, mingling with the sterile smell of bleach that permeates the amphitheater.

"Shall we?" His mother's voice cuts through the silence, as jarring as knife scraping along an empty plate.

"Yes, it is just about time." My own voice surprises me, steady and calm despite the roiling emotions inside me. I lead the way, my steps slow and measured, aware of every move I make, every breath I take. They follow, and I can almost feel the heat of Lincoln's glare on my back, branding me with a mark I'm not sure I want to wear but am powerless to resist.

The closer we get to the amphitheater, the more my anxiety ratchets up, a symphony of tension building to a crescendo. This is it. Showtime. And the audience? A mother-son duo straight out of a Greek tragedy and a crowd of unsuspecting academics. No pressure.

I stride ahead, the click of my heels on concrete a fragmented beat against the silence trailing behind me. Lincoln's glare burns into my spine, a seething energy that prickles my skin. Normally, his smoldering intensity might quicken my pulse in a less hostile way. But now? Now it's like staring down a predator.

"Got something to say, or are you just practicing your death stare for Halloween?" I toss over my shoulder, my voice laced with a bravado I'm far from feeling.

His low chuckle chases away the chill his look gives me. "Do I make you nervous? Is your attitude just for me? Or did you wake up planning to be a wretched bitch?"

There's a tug at the corner of my lips, an instinct to smile at his barbed wit. I quash it mercilessly. "Oh, you get the VIP treatment."

"Break a leg, sis," he says, and his voice sends a shiver down my spine. "Or better yet, your perfect little neck."

I whip my head toward him, our eyes locking in a silent clash of wills. "Thanks, bro," I shoot back, my words dripping with enough sarcasm to corrode steel. "But if anyone's going to choke tonight, it'll be you—on your ego."

His smirk flickers, and for a moment, I see something akin to respect flash across his features. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, but it's enough to tell me he knows I won't be cowed by his intimidation tactics.

The amphitheater looms before us, a coliseum where I'll either triumph or tumble. But I am gladiator and lion both, and I will not be bested—not by my fears, not by Lincoln Blackwood, not by anyone.