The Founders' Gala was held at the Grand Dominion Hotel, a sprawling marvel of glass and gold that sat on the edge of the harbor. It was neutral ground, a place where the varying packs of the West Coast mingled under a fragile truce to discuss trade, territory, and alliances.
Inside the limousine, the air was thick with tension. Emily smoothed the silk of her emerald dress for the hundredth time, her fingers trembling.
"Stop," Ethan said.
He didn't look at her; his gaze was fixed on the passing city lights, his profile sharp and unyielding.
"I can't help it," Emily whispered. "I feel like I'm walking to my execution. Everyone in that room thinks I'm dead. Ryan thinks I'm dead."
"Ryan thinks you are a problem he has solved," Ethan corrected, turning to face her. The interior lights of
