(Sophie’s POV)
The room glittered like temptation itself.
Crystal chandeliers spilled light that looked like liquid fire across polished marble, laughter echoed beneath music too polished to be real, and the air shimmered with perfume, money, and malice. The Blackwell Gala—a battlefield wrapped in elegance.
And tonight, I wasn’t the casualty.
I was the weapon.
Cole Kingston’s hand rested against my back as we finished our dance. The orchestra’s final note melted into applause, but I hardly heard it. My gaze had already found him—Adrian Blackwood—standing across the ballroom like a shadow carved from control.
He looked devastating. Black suit, blacker stare. The kind of man whose presence silenced rooms. But not mine. Not anymore.
Beside him stood Elena Moreau. Gold gown. Red lips. A
