The dress she wore was silk.
Red. Slit high enough to scandalize. Tight enough to warn.
Elira didn’t need armor tonight.
She was the weapon.
The charity gala was hosted at a mansion so white it gleamed like bone under the moonlight. Crystal chandeliers sparkled like a sky of stars—and in the center of it all stood him.
Soren Blackwell.
Her ex-fiancé.
The man who left her at the altar three years ago—then married her half-sister four months later.
And the father of her child.
He didn’t know that last part.
Yet.
Elira slid through the crowd like smoke, ignoring the flutes of champagne, the curious glances, the whispers.
Soren turned the moment she entered.
His expression didn’t flicker. Not even a blink.
But his hand clenched around his glass until the stem cracked.
She smiled
