I should have known something was off when the invitation came.
A glittery gold envelope slipped under my apartment door, sealed with a strange crest. It wasn’t Phil’s style—too refined, too formal. My hands trembled as I opened it.
Kimberly Lane,
You’re invited to a private industry mixer at The Rosette Club, 9:00 p.m. sharp.
Black tie. Come alone.
A Friend
A friend? I had few of those in this city.
But something about it pulled me in. Maybe it was desperation to escape the suffocating grip of Phil, or maybe curiosity had rooted itself deep. Either way, I stood in front of the club hours later, dressed in a sleek black dress and heels that made me taller, stronger, at least on the outside.
The Rosette Club pulsed with subtle jazz and quiet whispers. Everyone seemed to know each ot
