The invitation was not printed on heavy cream cardstock. It did not come with a wax seal or a courier.
It was a single, digital line, blinking on Aurora's phone screen.
From: Liam Cross
To: Aurora Vale
Subject: Collaboration
My office. Tomorrow. 10 AM. Alone.
Aurora stared at the message. It was 9 PM. Ethan was asleep, safe in the "fortress" of Liam's guest suite, surrounded by guards he thought were "knights."
She was sitting in the living room of the suite, a glass of water in her hand, her knees drawn up to her chest.
Collaboration.
It was a code. A lie. A trap.
He wasn't asking for a meeting about fabric or distribution. He was asking for a confession.
She had been living under his roof for forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours of polite, agonizing distance. He had kept his p
