Marcus stood in the grand hall of the Ross Estate, the towering ceilings echoing faintly with the clink of glasses and the distant murmurs of staff. Gold ribbons were draped over the chandelier, white roses coiled up the columns, and everything smelled of polished silver and rehearsed lies.
The decorations for the rehearsal dinner were perfect—meticulously curated, just like Rosa liked them. But perfection felt suffocating now. His eyes scanned the room, passing over the ornate floral arrangements and neatly folded place cards bearing names of people he barely trusted.
Where was she?
He moved deeper into the room, his boots silent on the marble floor, heart heavier with each step. He had come straight from the Willow Pack. Still smelled faintly of pine and firewood and something sweet,
