Our private war was about to become a public spectacle, and our love was the one secret we had left.
The penthouse was a vortex of controlled chaos, a symphony of hushed voices and rustling garments that did nothing to quiet the storm raging inside me. In three hours, Lysander and I would stand before a wall of cameras and dissecting stares, a united front against the headline screaming from my abandoned tablet: “Billionaire’s Father Implicated in Murder Conspiracy! The Muse at the Center of the Storm.”
I stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, a stranger swathed in liquid silver staring back. The dress was armor, its severe lines meant to project an unshakeable coolness I was far from feeling.
“Nervous?” His voice was a low vibration against my bare back as his hands settled on my hips
