Emily never liked mornings. They brought light, and light revealed too much. She preferred the velvet cloak of night, where whispers turned into weapons and secrets bled like ink into the dark.
But this morning, she stood at her vanity, brushing her dark hair back with deliberate strokes, her reflection smirking back at her. The gala may have ended in flames—quite literally, with chaos unraveling like a string pulled too far—but she wasn’t defeated. No. Lucas had given himself away. Olivia too.
“You think you’ve won,” Emily murmured to her reflection. “But you’ve only shown me where to strike next.”
She laid down the brush and picked up a manila folder, its corners worn, its contents sharper than any blade. Inside were photographs, old letters, records she’d collected for years. Every s
