The moment Serena stepped out of the car, the night's chill wrapped around her like silk — sharp, electric, alive with anticipation.
Before her, the façade of the Imperial Club gleamed beneath the lamplight, marble and glass shimmering with a thousand reflected flames.
Inside, music swelled — the sound of polite laughter, of crystal striking crystal — and beneath it, the hum of speculation waiting to be fed.
Christopher Cross offered his arm.
Serena hesitated only long enough to draw one steadying breath. Then she placed her gloved hand lightly upon his sleeve.
It was a small gesture — elegant, practiced — yet she knew it would set the ton ablaze.
"Ready?" he murmured, voice low, a thread of warmth beneath his composure.
"I suppose that depends on what I'm walking into," she replied softly.
He smiled faintly, the expression unreadable. "Only a room full of liars pretending they aren't waiting for you."
