Elira had faced microphones before.
She had stood on stages. Sat across from anchors. Smiled at vultures.
But nothing—nothing—prepared her for the sound of her son’s name echoing from a ghost.
“Amari.”
Elira froze.
The ballroom silenced.
Soren’s grip on her waist tightened.
The woman stood near the back, dressed in white silk and madness. Her blonde hair was curled into soft waves that defied the venom in her eyes.
Isla.
Elira couldn’t move.
The cameras spun. Guests whispered. Security stiffened.
“I came for what belongs to me,” Isla said.
And then—she raised her hand.
A shot cracked.
Screams tore through the air.
Elira didn’t see who the bullet hit. She didn’t care. Her instincts roared.
“Where’s Amari?” she shouted, turning to the guard near the rear doors.
But the guard
