|Gryphon's POV|
The ballroom is a cathedral of decadence—glass chandeliers dripping like frozen tears from the ceiling, music curling through the air like perfume, and laughter chiming over the clink of flutes filled with champagne older than most of the people drinking it. I'm leaning against one of the marble columns, nursing a drink I don't like, letting Draven do the social thing while Casmira dazzles the room in her own right—elegant and lethal, as always.
The rich parade past in their masks and gowns and tailored arrogance, all glitter and secrets and teeth disguised as smiles. My own mask is simple—black, sharp-edged, a thing I can hide behind. I don't belong here. I never have. But the Russos pull me into these circles sometimes, and I owe them more than just my silence. So I sho
