The ballroom at The Pierre was a cathedral of capitalism, all gilded ceilings and crystal chandeliers weeping light onto an ocean of dark suits and jewel-toned dresses. The air was thick with the scent of money, ambition, and designer floral arrangements. This was Julian’s coronation, and the entire court of Wall Street had turned out to kiss the ring.
I moved through the crowd like a ghost, a polite smile fixed on my face. My dress was a column of dark sapphire silk, severe and elegant. It was a warrior’s sheath, not a wife’s adornment. Elena was preening in the front row, seated next to the Atlas Corp CEO, Marcus Thorne. She wore a shimmering gold dress, a sun goddess claiming her throne. She caught my eye and gave me a small, triumphant smirk. She thought this was her victory party.
I
