Ingrid's POV
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my dressing room, staring at the faint red mark Nora had left on my wrist when I grabbed her at the gala. My nails had dug into her skin first, but somehow she'd still managed to bruise me. The memory made my jaw clench.
That little nobody in emerald silk had walked in on Mikhail Romanov's arm and made the entire room forget I existed.
I had spent three hours getting ready for that gala. Hair, makeup, the custom Versace gown in blood-red that cost more than most people earn in a year. Every detail perfect. And still, every head turned when she stepped through the doors. Not for me. For her.
I wanted to claw her eyes out.
Instead I smiled, sipped champagne, and let the rage simmer until it felt like fire under
