Marcus’s fingers were a vise on my arm, his question a blade poised over the fragile skin of my lie. “Who is that, Elara?”
Across the crowded gala, Adrian Vale’s gaze didn’t waver. It was a cold, deliberate challenge, not to Marcus, but to me. The two poles of my existence—my gilded cage and my dangerous secret—collided here in this perfumed hell, and I was the live wire between them.
My mouth was desert-dry. The practiced serenity I wore like armor cracked under the weight of being seen by both my jailer and my temptation. I could feel the ghost of my stiletto heel against denim, the phantom pressure of his erection under my sole. The memory was a live current in my veins.
“A paitent.” I said, my voice a controlled, melodic instrument. It was the truth, technically. The most dangerous
