Elira placed the photo on Damien’s desk.
He stared at it, silent.
Soren and Delilah—twisted in sheets, caught in betrayal, timestamped from before Delilah came crawling back to their estate.
“Did she ever mention this?” Elira asked.
Damien’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“She was his spy long before she was your guest.”
“And now?” Damien’s voice was low, dangerous.
“Now we let her think she’s still winning.”
Damien looked up. “And Valencia?”
Elira smiled. “Let her believe she’s controlling the game.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to play them against each other?”
“No.” She picked up the photo again. “I’m going to let them do it for me.”
Downstairs, Delilah paced in her suite, one hand in her hair, the other clutching her phone.
Soren wasn’t answering.
She knew Valencia had gone
