The ballroom of the Sterling gala buzzed with the polite hum of conversation, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the faint undertone of the string quartet in the corner. Glittering chandeliers cast prisms of light across the polished marble floors, and the city’s elite laughed in carefully measured doses, their silk gowns and tailored tuxedos reflecting the kind of wealth most could only dream of.
But beneath the orchestrated glamour, a storm was gathering.
Silas Vance stood near the edge of the crowd, concealed behind the towering back of a flower arrangement, his blue eyes scanning, calculating, ready. His suit jacket did little to hide the bruises along his ribs or the faint line of swelling along his jaw. Every inch of him screamed coiled tension, like a predator in a cage watching
