And now it’s garbage. Torched by my own obsession.
“She’ll be out of the way tonight,” I say coldly, even though it tastes like a lie on my tongue.
Her best friend—Harper—is dating one of my men. The guy got a raise and a promotion just for existing near her. I pulled strings without her knowing. Because he’s trustworthy. Because he keeps her safe.
Tonight, they’re entertaining her at her apartment. Wine. Pizza. Whatever it takes.
Of course, Jaxon and I have alerts set on her building, her phone, her exit points. I’ll know the second she walks out the front door.
Because I don’t want heranywherenear tonight’s entertainment.
“Strict orders,” I say, tightening the cufflinks on my wrist. “If she leaves, I’m told immediately.”
“Lucian,” Killian says, quieter now. “You sure?”
No.
But it doesn’t matter.
“She’s staying in,” I say. “She’ll be safe.”
At least fromeverything but me.
Because tonight, I’ll wage a war without a single bullet.
Just the right kind of chaos.
And when it’s over… I’ll deal with what I’ve done to her.
What I’ve let her become to me.
* * *
The Governor’s Ball is an affair of legend. The elite of New York’s power structure gather here each spring, cloaked in velvet and hypocrisy, clonking their champagne flutes above their heads as if the city doesn’t rot beneath their feet.
Tonight, Lorenzo hosts it all.
His smile as charming as his lies.
His hands shaking every back he’ll later stab.
The ballroom is a temple to wealth—white marble floors, twenty-foot chandeliers glittering with dripping crystals. There are tables lined in gold thread and champagne towers so tall they defy physics.
Cameras flash in bursts as celebrities pose, all teeth and emptiness. Senators, tycoons, CEOs—the faces of corruption, painted with gloss and pride.
And none of them notice.
Not the shift in the air.
Not the glances between servers.
Not that every chef in the kitchen answers tome.
Every tuxedoed waiter.
Every red-lipped cocktail girl.
Every white-jacketed maître d’.