The private fitting suite at Maison de L’Ombre was draped in floor-to-ceiling emerald velvet, illuminated by warm crystal chandeliers. The haute couture boutique had been cleared of all staff and patrons for three blocks reserved exclusively for the newly solidified Matriarch of the Vane Empire.
I stood on the mahogany pedestal, smoothing the heavy midnight-blue silk of an off-the-shoulder evening gown designed for the upcoming Winter Syndicate Ball.
Outside the fitting room’s mirrored doors, Viktor’s voice resonated faintly down the corridor as he coordinated perimeter guards. Dante was scheduled to join me in fifteen minutes after concluding a emergency call with the harbor masters.
"The hemline needs another quarter-inch lift on the left, Mrs. Vane," the lead tailor murmured softly,
