The Grand Ballroom of the Sterling Plaza was a monument to excess. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen rain from the ceiling, and the floor was a sea of black-tie tuxedos and designer gowns. This was Victor Sterling’s home turf—a world of polite smiles, sharp knives, and billion-dollar secrets.
I stood at the top of the marble staircase, my hand trembling slightly on the railing. I was wearing a gown of molten gold that seemed to glow against my skin, a gift from Kael that felt more like armor than silk. Beside me, Kael was a shadow in a tuxedo, his presence so commanding that a three-foot radius of empty space followed him as we moved through the crowd.
"They look like sheep," Kael whispered, his eyes scanning the room with predatory boredom. "Fat, wealthy sheep waiting for a shearer."
