The morning air in Chicago was biting, a reflection of the atmosphere inside the Black Tower. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the master suite, staring at a woman I barely recognized. Damian had sent his personal stylist—a man who worked in silence and shadows—to prepare me.
I was draped in a tailored, charcoal-grey sheath dress that skimmed my body with surgical precision. It was professional, expensive, and armored. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, low bun, and my lips were painted a shade of red that looked like dried blood.
"You look like a Black," a voice rasped from the doorway.
I turned to see Damian. He was leaning against the frame, his tuxedo jacket discarded, his white shirt open at the collar. He looked like he hadn't slept a second. His eyes, usually like
