The screen flickered to life, cutting abruptly from the dazzling showcase of the year’s finest jewelry to an intimate, almost clandestine scene.
A woman’s delicate hands appeared, poised over an empty sketchbook, her fingers slender and deliberate. Her head remained bowed, long, silken hair cascading like a veil, obscuring her face from view.
No one in the hall recognized her—no one except those who knew the sound of her voice, the quiet intensity of her presence.
"What are you doing, Orion Black?"
Her voice, soft yet laced with something unreadable, floated through the hall as her pencil began moving in erratic, almost frenzied strokes across the blank page. The sound was unfamiliar to most, but to those who heard it daily—like Freya Winters' team—it was unmistakable.
Laine,
