The Steele mansion had always been a house of masks, but that night the game felt deliberate.
Vanessa moved through the great hall with effortless grace, the sweep of her crimson gown catching the light of the chandeliers like fire stitched into silk. Her laughter rang out bright, melodic, deceptively warm as servants carried trays of champagne and wine into the parlor. The scene could have belonged to a magazine spread: a midnight gathering, elegant and intimate, where power and beauty converged beneath painted ceilings.
But Sierra knew better.
Every detail was timing, the guest list, the little whispers of “let’s have something casual, something fun” was curated. This wasn’t hospitality. This was theater. And she was the unwilling star.
Damien stood beside her, immaculate in a tailor
