The ballroom smelled like money and secrets.
Aria had been standing still too long, glass of wine untouched, her dress cinched a little too tightly around the ribs. Her face ached from smiling. Her mind was somewhere else—everywhere else—except here.
She could feel his eyes on her. Even across the room, even when she wasn't looking, she felt him.
Xander.
The pull between them was magnetic and exhausting, like gravity had its own twisted plan.
"You're going to shatter that glass if you grip it any harder," said a familiar voice beside her.
Lucian. Of course.
Aria didn't look at him right away. "At least it would make this night interesting."
He chuckled. "Careful. The last time you looked this miserable, someone ended up divorced."
"Correction," she said dryly, turning to face him. "I ended up buried. Little worse than a divorce."
Lucian's smile faltered, just a second. "Too soon?"
Aria looked away. "Too late."
Before he could respond, a waiter appeared beside her. Polite. Unbothered.
"Miss Quinn," he said quietly, offering a silver tray. "This was left for you. Said it was urgent."
She frowned. No name on the envelope—just her initials: A.Q.
She took it, more out of instinct than curiosity, but when she saw the handwriting, her stomach dropped.
No.
It couldn't be.
Looping cursive. Tilted to the right. A little flourish at the end of her name. It was hers. But not.
Amara's.
Her twin.
Dead and buried.
She opened the envelope with fingers gone cold.
A single line on thick paper:
"The truth is colder than you remember. And he's not the only one who lied. —A"
She stared at it until the letters blurred.
Lucian's voice cut in. "Bad news?"
Aria blinked. The music swelled. Her hands trembled just enough to spill wine down her wrist.
She didn't answer.
Because if this was real—if Amara had written this—then the game had never ended.
It was just beginning.