The gala was crawling with cameras and billion-dollar grudges.
Alina stood at the top of the black marble staircase, wrapped in red silk so bold it could’ve been a warning sign. Her hair swept high, her lips painted blood. Nicholas stood beside her in a tailored black suit, looking every inch the man headlines swore was scandal incarnate.
Whispers trailed them like smoke as they descended.
“That’s her,” someone murmured.
“The desk girl.”
“She doesn’t look like a victim.”
“No—she looks like the threat.”
They’d come to the Hope Foundation’s annual masquerade fundraiser. Nicholas was a board member. Sasha was its face. And tonight, no one wore a mask for charity. They wore them to survive.
Alina’s heels echoed like gunshots across the ballroom floor.
She’d told Nicholas she wanted to
