In the poorly illuminated library, Amelia moved forward on the marble floor with rhythmic heel clicks. The flames in the hearth flickered across the walls, dancing like the doubt inside her. With the gala now only two nights away, the stakes were never greater.
She was not only fighting for a position. She was struggling for power, for control, for survival—and somewhere twisted in it all, for a truth neither she nor Sebastian had the bravery to name.
With a tumbler of scotch in his hand, Sebastian leaned against the edge of the desk and gazed at her.
His voice low and silky, he added: "You're going to wear a hole on the floor."
Amelia shot him a glance. “I need every detail perfect. The dress, the speech, the timing. Isabelle is calculating, and if we’re off by even a second, she’ll t
