The scent of burnt coffee was the only warning.
Elira turned slowly at the sound of heels clicking across the marble floor of Soren’s cliffside kitchen. She blinked once, then froze.
There she was.
Valencia.
In red.
Poised like a queen at the edge of another woman’s castle.
“Elira,” she said smoothly. “You’re just as plain as the photos.”
Elira didn’t flinch. “And you’re exactly as insecure as I expected.”
Soren came in behind her, gaze cold. He said nothing, but the tension in his jaw made it clear—he already knew who she was.
Damien arrived a second later, slamming the door behind him. “You weren’t invited.”
Valencia smiled. “Didn’t need to be.”
Elira folded her arms. “What is she doing here, Damien?”
“I didn’t bring her.”
“No,” Valencia purred. “I came all on my own. I hear
